UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC  L  TY 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 

IVF  }F  CALIFORNIA, 

dRARY, 

IGELES,  CALIF. 


\ 


A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Art 
of  the  Short  Story 

By  Charles  Raymond  Barrett,  Ph.  B. 


(THIRD   THOUSAND) 


New  York :  The  Baker  and  Taylor  Co. 
33-37  E.  17th  Street,  Union  Square  North 


S£P    1906 


Copyrighted,  1898,  by  Charles  Raymond  Barrett 
Copyrighted,  1900,  by  Charles  Raymond  Barrett 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE 

7 

INTRODUCTION 

II 

I 

THE  SHORT  STORY 

15 

II 

SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

26 

III 

THE  PLOT 

45 

IV 

TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

64 

V 

THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

78 

VI 

THE  CHARACTERS 

94 

VII 

METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

119 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 
VIII 

PAGE 

THE  BEGINNING  132 

IX 

THE  STORY  PROPER       .  149 

X 

CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION  171 

XI 

THE  STYLE  189 

XII 
THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP  209 

XIII 
THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET  222 

APPENDIX 
"  THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST  "  234 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  is  an  attempt  to  put  into  definite  form  the 
principles  observed  by  the  masters  of  the  short  story 
in  the  practice  of  their  art.  It  is  the  result  of  a  careful 
study  of  their  work,  of  some  indifferent  attempts  to 
imitate  them,  and  of  the  critical  examination  of  several 
thousands  of  short  stories  written  by  amateurs.  It  is 
designed  to  be  of  practical  assistance  to  the  novice  in 
short  story  writing,  from  the  moment  the  tale  is  dimly 
conceived  until  it  is  completed  and  ready  for  the  editor's 
v^  judgment. 

^  The  rules  and  principles  here  presented  embody  not 
(^  what  I  conceive  to  be  right,  but  what  the  great  masters 
..  of  the  short  story  have  thought  to  be  right,  and  what 
they  have  proved  to  be  at  least  successful.  I  speak 
only  as  a  delver  into  the  secrets  of  other  men ;  and  if  I 
seem  arrogant,  it  is  due  to  the  influence  of  the  company 
I  keep.  My  deductions  are  made  not  only  from  the 
artifices  and  triumphs  of  the  successful,  but  from  the 
struggles  and  failures  of  the  unfortunate  as  well;  and 
I  have  endeavored  to  make  clear  both  the  philosophy 
and  the  application  of  all  the  principles  so  deduced. 

7 


PREFACE 

Though  in  theory  these  rules  are  obligatory  on  all  who 
essay  the  short  story,  they  are  frequently  and  knowingly 
evaded  or  violated  by  the  masters  of  the  art,  whose 
genius  is  great  enough  to  excuse  their  disregard  of  the 
conventions,  or  whose  skill  is  sufficient  to  smooth  over 
their  technical  lapses ;  but  for  the  novice  the  only  safe 
course  is  a  careful  observance  of  all  conventions. 

To  the  aspiring  writer  this  book  may  seem  to  be 
merely  a  catalogue  of  "  Don'ts  ",  the  gist  of  which  is, 
"  Don't  write  " ;  but  that  is  to  misread  me.  Short  story 
writing  is  not  easy,  and  I  cannot  make  it  so,  even  if 
I  would;  but  it  is  far  from  my  purpose  to  discourage 
any  person  who  feels  the  Heaven-sent  call  to  write, 
and  who  has  the  will  and  ability  to  respond  to  it. 
But  that  call  is  but  a  summons  to  labor — and  to 
labor  the  severest  and  most  persistent.  To  one  who 
comes  to  it  but  half-heartedly,  illy  prepared,  shirking 
its  requirements,  I  can  predict  certain  failure ;  but  to  the 
earnest,  serious,  conscientious  worker,  I  would  say  a 
word  of  hope.  The  promotion  from  the  rank  of  ama- 
teur to  the  dignity  of  authorship  may  be  long  in  com- 
ing, but  it  will  come  at  last.  Fame,  like  all  else  that 
this  world  has  to  give,  depends  largely  upon  down- 
right hard  work;  and  he  who  has  the  courage  to 
strive  in  the  face  of  disappointments  will  achieve  suc- 
cess in  the  end. 

Throughout  this  book  I  have  endeavored  to  give  my 

8 


PREFACE 

statements  definiteness  by  the  employment  of  numerous 
examples,  both  good  and  bad.  I  have  made  no  attempt 
to  present  an  exhaustive  analysis  of  the  technique  of 
individuals  or  of  schools,  but  have  chosen  my  illustra- 
tions with  a  single  view  to  their  aptness ;  I  have,  how- 
ever, for  the  convenience  of  reference,  taken  these  para- 
digms chiefly  from  the  published  collections  of  stories 
by  the  older  and  better  known  writers.  My  "awful 
examples "  are  verbatim  excerpts  from  manuscripts 
which  have  passed  through  my  hands ;  their  authorship 
is  concealed  for  obvious  reasons. 

To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  there  is  no  book  extant 
which  treats  solely  of  the  technique  of  the  short  story. 
The  nearest  approach  to  it  is  "  How  to  Write  Fiction," 
an  anonymous  work  published  by  Bellaires  &  Co^,  Lon- 
don ;  but  to  my  mind  that  is  too  slight,  too  theoretical, 
and  too  enamored  of  the  artificial  French  school  to  be 
of  practical  value  to  the  amateur.  Far  better,  as  work- 
ing guides,  are  the  frequent  fragmentary  articles  on  the 
short  story,  many  of  them  by  successful  short  story 
writers,  published  in  current  periodicals,  to  which  I  am 
considerably  indebted.  But  my  greatest  obligation  is  to 
a  course  in  "  The  Art  of  the  Short  Story  " — the  first 
university  course  ever  offered  in  that  subject— con- 
ducted at  the  University  of  Chicago  in  1896  by  Dr.  E. 
H.  Lewis. 

C.R-B. 

CHICAGO.,  August  i,  1900. 

9 


INTRODUCTION 

/-4-3S& 

THE  short  story  was  first  recognized  as  a  distinct, 
class  of  literature  in  1842,  when  Poe's  criticism  of 
Hawthorne*  called  attention  to  the  new  form  of  fiction. 
Short  story  writing  had,  however,  been  practiced  for 
many  years  before  that:  perhaps  the  narratives  of 
Homer  and  the  tales  of  the  first  books  of  the  Bible  may 
be  considered  as  the  first  examples;  certainly  the  short 
story  is  closely  associated  in  its  early  history  with  nar- 
rative poems,  allegorical  tales,  and  mouth-to-mouth 
traditions,  and  it  can  be  traced  surely  to  the  fabliaux 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  Later  writers  aided  in  its 
development :  Mallory's  "  Morte  D'Arthur  "  and  Cax- 
ton's  popularization  of  old  romances  marked  a  further 
progress ;  and  some  of  the  work  of  Defoe  and  Addison 
would  almost  stand  the  modern  tests.  But  the  short 
story  as  we  know  it  to-day  is  a  product  of  the  nine- 
teenth century;  and  it  owes  its  position  in  literature, 
if  not  its  very  existence,  to  the  work  of  Irving,  Haw- 
thorne, and  Poe.  They  first  recognized  its  possibilities 

*  "  Hawthorne's  '  Tales,'  "  by  Edgar  Allan  Poc.    Graham' $ 

Magazine,  May,  1842. 

ii 


INTRODUCTION 

and  employed  it  seriously ;  and  the  art  and  genius  which 
they  put  into  their  tales  assured  the  short  story  a  per- 
manent place  in  literature.  They  differed  in  subject 
matter  and  style,  but  they  recognized  the  same  require- 
ments and  limitations;  and  the  canons  which  they  es- 
tablished then  obtain  to-day. 

The  modern  short  story  is  essentially  an  American 
product;  and  our  masters  of  its  art  have  established 
precedents  for  literary  workers  of  the  old  world.  In 
England,  Stevenson,  Kipling  and  Haggard  are  con- 
sidered the  originators  of  the  modern  short  story;  and 
Zola,  de  Maupassant,  Daudet  and  Paul  Marguerite  in, 
France,  Tolstoi  in  Russia,  and  other  famous  foreign  au- 
thors have  their  claims  for  consideration;  but  all  of 
them,  admittedly  or  not,  are  but  disciples  of  the  earlier 
American  trinity.  This  book  will  confine  itself  to  the 
English- American  short  story. 

To-day  the  short  story  is  so  popular  that  we  seem  to 
be  in  a  new  literary  epoch — the  epoch  of  the  short  story 
— and  there  is  no  apparent  cause  to  expect  an  early 
diminution  in  the  demand  for  such  literature ;  so  that  to 
the  young  writer  the  short  story  offers  the  best  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  his  mettle.  Then,  too,  it  has  the  ad- 
ditional value  of  being  an  excellent  school  for  the  novel- 
ist. The  short  story  and  the  novel  have  many  radical 
differences ;  but  in  material,  treatment  and  aim  they  are 
much  the  same,  and  the  same  general  training  is  neces- 

12 


INTRODUCTION 

sary  for  both*  All  short  story  writers  do  not  become 
great  novelists,  nor  have  all  novelists  been  short  story 
tellers;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  the  majority  of  the  present 
day  novelists  served  their  'prenticeship  in  the  ranks  of 
the  short  story  writers. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

i 
THE  SHORT  STORY 

THERE  is  no  modern  literary  form  which  is  as 
Jittle  understood  as  is  the  short  story.  The  term 
short  story  is  applied  to  every  piece  of  prose  writing 
of  30,000  words  or  less,  without  regard  to  its  matter, 
aim,  or  handling;  but  our  purpose  demands  a  defi- 
nition of  some  accuracy. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  what  is,  and  what  is  not, 
a  short  story?  Many  things  a  short  story  may-be. 
It  may  be  anjepisode,  like  Miss  Ella  Hepworth  Dix- 
on's  or  like  Miss  Bertha  Thomas';  a  fairy  tale,  like 
Miss  Evelyn  Sharp's;  the  ^^ejilatiotuoi~a— single 
character^ with  the ;  stage  to  Jhimself  (Mr.  George  Gis- 
sing) ;  a  talejrf  the jmcjmny  (Mr.  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling) ;  a  diajogue  comedy_(Mr.  Pett  Ridge) ;  a^pan- 
orama  of  selected  landscape,  a  vision  of  the  sordid 


street,  a  record  of  heroism,  a  remote  tradition  or 

15 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

some  old  belief  vitalized  by  its  bearing  on  our  lives 
to-day,  an  analysis  of  an  obscure  calling,  a  glimpse 
at  a  forgotten  quarter  ........  but  one  thing  it  can 

never  be  —  it  can  never  be  '  a  novel  in  a  nutshell  '."  * 
"  A  short_sto.ry  .  ,  .  ,  ,  ,  must,  JgacL  _up_  _to  something. 
It  should  have  for  its  structure  a  plot,  a  bit  of  life^ 
an  incident  such  as  you 


papejijiaragraph  .......  He  (Richard  Harding  Da- 

vis) takes  the  substance  of  just  such  a  paragraph, 
and,  with  that  for  the  meat  of  his  story,  weaves 
around  it  details,  descriptions  and  dialogue,  until  a 
complete  story  is  the  result.  Now,  a  story  is  some- 
thing more  than  incidents  and  descriptions.  It  is  a 
definite  thing.  It  progresses  constantly.  It  ar- 
rives somewhere.  It  must  enforce  some  idea  (no 
matter  what).  It  must  be  such  a  reality  that  a  man 
who  read  it  would  carry  away  a  definite  impres- 
sion.'^ 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  J:he_term-shert  story  is- 
properly  used  only  when  it  means  a  short  prose-nar- 
rativepwhich  "presents  artistically  a  bit  of  real  lifej 


*"The  Short  Story,"  by  Frederick  Wedmore.  Nineteenth 
Century,  Mar.,  '98. 

f'How  to  Write  Short  Stories."  An  interview  with  F. 
Hopkinson  Smith  in  the  Boston  Herald.  Current  Literature. 
June,  'g6. 

16 


THE  SHORT  STORY 

the  primary  object  of  which  is  to  amuse,  though  itv 
may  also  depicf  a  character,  plead  a  cause,  or  point  a 
moral;  this  amusement  is  neither  of  that  aesthetic  or- 
der which  we  derive  from  poetry,  nor  of  that  cheap 
sort  which  we  gain  from  a  broad  burlesque :  it  is  the 
simple  yet  intellectual  pleasure  derived  from  listen- 
ing to  a  well  told  narrative. 

The  first  requisite  of  a  short  story  is  that  the 
writer  have  a  story  to  tell — that  is,  a  plot.  He  may 
present  pretty  scenes  and  word  pictures  if  he  will,  but 
he  must  vivify  and  humanize  them  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  certain  characters,  patterned  after  the  peo- 
ple of  real  life;  and  these  characters  must  move  and 
act  and  live.  The  presentation  of  "  still  life  "  pure 
and  simple  is  not  in  the  province  of  the  short  story. 

The  question  of  _  length  is  but  relative;  in  gen- 
eral a  short  story  should  not  exceed  10,000  words, 
and  it  could  hardly  contain  less  than  1,000;  while 
from  3,000  to  5,000  is  the  most  usual  length.  Yet 
Hawthorne's  "  The  Gentle  Boy "  contains  12,000 
words;  Poe's  "The  Gold  Bug,"  13,000;  and  per- 
haps the  majority  of  James'  exceed  the  maximum, 
while  "  The  Lesson  of  the  Master  "  requires  25,- 
ooo,  and  "  The  Aspern  Papers  "  32,000.  Indeed, 
the  length  of  any  story  is  determined,  not  so  much 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

by  some  arbitrary  word  limit,  as  by  the  theme 
with  which  it  deals.  Every  plot  requires  a  certain 
number  of  words  for  its  proper  elaboration,  and 
neither  more  nor  less  will  do.  Just  what  the  limit 
for  any  particular  story  may  be,  the  writer  must  de- 
cide for  himself.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  a  short  story 
writer  should  act,  metaphorically,  like  this — he 
should  put  his  idea  for  a  story  into  one  cup  of  a  pair 
of  balances,  then  into  the  other  he  should  deal  out 
his  words;  five  hundred;  a  thousand;  two  thousand; 
three  thousand;  as  the  case  may  be — and  when  the 
number  of  words  thus  paid  in  causes  the  beam  to  rise, 
on  which  his  idea  hangs,  then  is  his  story  finished. 
If  he  puts  in  a  word  more  or  less,  he  is  doing  false 
work."  * 

The  jhort  story  does  not  need  the  love  element 
that4s_generally^  considered  necessary  to  the  novel, 
and  many  short  stories  disregard  it  altogether.  Love 
usually  requires  time  and  moods  and  varying  scenes 
for  its  normal  development,  so  that  it  is  difficult 
to  treat  it  properly  within  the  limits  of  the  short 
story;  and  then  only  when  some  particular  phase  or 
scene  admits  of  isolation.  Then,  too,  many  short 


*  Robert  Ban-  in  "How  to  Write  a  Short  Story;   A  Sym- 
posium."   The  Bookman.    Mar.,  '97. 


THE  SHORT  STORY 

stories  are  merely  accounts  of  strange  adventures, 
wonderful  discoveries  or  inventions,  and  queer  oc- 
currences of  all  sorts— themes  which  amuse  us  from 
their  mere  oddity;  or  they  are  verbal  photographs  of 
life,  which  are  interesting  from  their  views  of  psy- 
chological and  sociological  problems;  and  none  of 
them  requires  love  as  the  chief  motive.  Ingenuity 
and  originality,  the  principal  constituents  of  such 
tales,  are  the  story  teller's  great  virtues;  on  them  he 
bases  his  hopes.  Therefore,  he  must  have  strong 
individuality,  and  the  power  of  forcing  his  readers 
to  view  life  through  his  eyes,  without  perceiving 
him. 

Also,  and  as  if  to  compensate  for  the  lack  of  the 
love  interest,  the  short  story  has  a  "  touch  of  fan- 
tasy "  which  gives  it  a  distinctive  charm.  This 
quality  is  the  hint  of — not  necessarily  the  supernat- 
ural, but  rather  the  weird;  it  is  a  recognition  and 
a  vague  presentation  of  the  many  strong  influences 
that  are  not  explainable  by  our  philosophy  of  life.  It 
is  the  intrusion  into  our  matter-of-fact  lives  of  the 
uncanny  element,  which  the  novice  so  grossly  mis- 
uses in  his  tales  of  premonitory  dreams  and  visions, 
and  of  most  unghostly .ghosts.  "It  is  not  enough 
to  catch  a  ghost  white-handed  and  to  hale  him  into 

19 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

the  full  glare  of  the  electric  light.  A  brutal  mis- 
use of  the  supernatural  is  perhaps  the  very  lowest 
degradation  of  the  art  of  fiction.  But  '  to  min- 
gle the  marvellous  rather  as  a  slight,  delicate,  and 
evanescent  flavor  than  as  any  actual  portion  of  the 
substance/  to  quote  from  the  preface  to  the  '  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables/  this  is,  or  should  be,  the  aim 
of  the  writer  of  short-stories  whenever  his  feet  leave 
the  firm  ground  of  fact  as  he  strays  in  the  unsub- 
stantial realm  of  fantasy.  In  no  one's  writings  is 
this  better  exemplified  than  in  Hawthorne's;  not 
even  in  Poe's.  There  is  a  propriety  in  Hawthorne's 
fantasy  to  which  Poe  could  not  attain.  Haw- 
thorne's effects  are  moral  where  Poe's  are  merely 
physical.  The  situation  and  its  logical  development 
and  the  effects  to  be  got  out  of  it  are  all  Poe  thinks 
of.  In  Hawthorne  the  situation,  however  strange 
and  weird,  is  only  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an 
inward  and  spiritual  struggle.  Ethical  consequences 
are  always  worrying  Hawthorne's  soul ;  but  Poe  did 
not  know  there  were  any  ethics."  * 

The  short  story  usually  treats  of  the  lighter  and 
brighter  side  of  life.     It  is  seldom  in  deadly  earnest; 


* "  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-story,"  by  Brander  Mat- 
thews.   Lippincotft.    Oct.,  '85. 

99 


THE  SHORT  STORY 

Jt_tends  somewhat  to  superficiality;  and  it  prefers 
Cleverness  to  profundity,  in  both  conception  and 
treatment.'  Naturally,  then,  comedy  rather  than  trag- 
edy is  its  usual  sphere;  and  though  the  tale  may 
end  in  gloom,  it  more  frequently  suggests  a  possi- 
ble tragedy  in  order  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the 
happy  denouement.  For  similar  reasons  the  short 
story  avoids  the  didactic  tone,  either  presenting  its 
lesson  in  clever  disguise,  or  limiting  its  moral  ef- 
forts to  providing  innocent  amusement  for  an  idle 
hour. 

In  the  strife  between  realism  and  romanticism  the 
short  story  adopts  the  middle  course,  taking  advan- 
tage jjithe  better  p.hases-o£  both,  but,  siding  with 
neither;  for  every  life  is  subject  to  both  influences, 
often  at  the  same  time,  and  the  short  story  aspires 
to  present  life  as  it  is.  "  Without  true  realism  and 
genuine  romanticism — actuality  and  ideals — good 
work  was  never  done,  nor  did  any  writer  ever  rise 
to  be  an  author."  *  "  No  worthy  work  of  fiction 
may  properly  be  labelled  romantic,  realistic  or  sym- 
bolic, since  every  great  work  of  art  contains  all  these 
in  some  proportion.  Love  and  fighting  are  not  nec- 


*  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
crick  M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs.     Nov.,  '94. 

91 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

essarily  romance;  nor  are  soup-kitchens  and  divorce 

courts  necessarily  realism Malice,  futility  and 

ugliness — the  dreadful  monotony  of  existence — are 
not  necessarily  real  life;  nor  the  tales  of  summer 
love  and  marriage  ceremonies,  successful  fightings, 
or  sacrifice  and  chivalry  necessarily  romance."  * 

In  its  technique  a  short  story  demands  the  ut- 
most care;  it  lacks  the  bulkjDf  the  novel,  which  hides 
minor  defects.  It  must  have  a  definite  form,  which 
shall  be  compact,  and  which  shall  have  its  parts  prop- 
erly proportioned  and  related;  and  it  must  be 
wrought  out  in  a  workmanlike  manner.  It  requires 
extreme  care  from  its  conception  to  its  completion, 
when  it  must  stand  forth  a  perfect  work  of  art;  and 
yet  it  must  reveal  no  signs  of  the  worker's  tools,  or  / 
of  the  pains  by  which  it  was  achieved. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  is  evident  that  the 
short  story  is  artificial,  and  to  a  considerable  de- 
gree unnatural.  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise,  for 
it  takes  out  of  our  complex  lives  a  single  person 
or  a  single  incident  and  treats  that  as  if  it  were 
complete  in  itself.  Such^  isolation  is  not  known  to 
nature:  There  all  things  work  together,  and 

* "  The  Art  of  Fiction,"  by  Gilbert  Parker.  The  Critic, 
Pec.,  '98. 

93 


THE  SHORT  STORY 

every  man  influences  all  about  him  and  is  influenced 
by  them.  Yet  this  separation  and  exclusion  are  re- 
quired by  Ihe  conventions  of  the  short  story;  and 


afteralI7  there  is  always  the  feeling,  if  the  charac- 
ters are  well  handled,  that  they  have  been  living 
and  will  continue  to  live,  though  we  have  chanced 
to  come  in  contact  with  them  for  only  a  short  time. 

r  It  is  this  isolation,  this  magnifying  of  one  char- 
U  acter  or  incident,  that  constitutes  the  chief  differ- 

^  ence  between  the  novel  and  the  short  story.*  In  the 
novel  we  have  a 'reproduction  of  a  certain  period  of 
real  life:  all  the  characters  are  there,  with  their 
complex  lives  and  their  varying  emotions;  there  are 
varied  scenes,  each  one  the  stage  of  some  par- 
ticular incident  or  semi-climax  which  carries  the 
action  on  to  the  final  chapter;  and  there  are  per- 
sons and  scenes  and  conversations  which  have  no 
reason  for  being  there,  except  that  just  such  trivial 
things  are  parts  of  life.  With  the  short  story  it 
is  very  different :  that  permits  of  but  one  scene  and 
incident,  one  or  two  real  characters,  with  one  predom- 
inant emotion;  all  else  is  a  detriment  to  the  inter- 


*  In  many  respects  the  art  of  the  short  story  and  the  novel 
are  so  closely  allied  that  I  have  been  able  to  reenforce  my  ob- 
servations with  magazine  articles  which  were  meant  to  apply 
primarily  to  the  novel. — THE  AUTHOR. 

33 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

est  and  success  of  the  story.  A  book  may  be  called 
a  novel  even  if  it  is  composed  of  a  series  of  incidents, 
each  complete  in  itself,  which  are  bound  together  by 
a  slender  thread  of  common  characters;  but  a  story 
cannot  properly  be  called  a  short  one  unless  it  has 
simplicity  of  plot,  singleness  of  character  and  cli- 
max, and  freedom  from  extraneous  matter.  "  In 
a  short  story  the  starting  point  is  an  idea,  a  defi- 
nite notion,  an  incident,  a  surprising  discovery;  and 
this  must  have  a  definite  significance,  a  bearing  on 
our  view  of  life;  also  it  must  be  applied  to  the  de- 
velopment of  one  life  course,  one  character.  The 
novel,  on  the  other  hand,  starts  with  a  conception 
of  character,  a  man,  a  woman,  a  human  heart,  which 
under  certain  circumstances  works  out  a  definite  re- 
sult, makes  a  world Lastly  it  develops  a 

group  of  characters,  who  together  make  a  complete 
community,  instead  of  tracing  the  life  course  of 
one."  * 

To  prove  that  these  various  requirements  are  rec- 
ognized and  observed  by  masters  of  the  art,  I  would 
ask  you  to  consider  the  following  list,  which  The 
Critic  selected  from  nearly  five  hundred  submitted  in 


* "  How   to   Write   Fiction."    Published    anonymously   by 
Bellaires  &  Co.,  London.    Part  I,  Chapter  I. 

24 


competition  for  a  prize  which  it  offered  for  a  list 
of  the  best  twelve  American  short  stories: 

"The  Man  Without  a  Country,"  Edward  Everett 
Hale. 

"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  Bret  Harte. 

"The  Great  Stone  Face,"  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

"  The  Snow  Image,"  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

"  The  Gold  Bug,"  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

"  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  Edgar  Allan 
Poe. 

"  The  Lady,  or  the  Tiger?"  Frank  R.  Stockton. 

"The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,"  Washington  Ir- 
ving. 

"  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  Washington  Irving. 

"  Marse  Chan,"  Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

"  Marjorie  Daw,"  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

"  The  Revolt  of  Mother,"  Mary  E.  Wilkins  * 


*  "  The  Best  Twelve  American  Stories."    The  Critic.    Apr. 
>, '07- 


II1 

SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

THE  treatment  demanded  by  any  particular  story 
depends  more  upon  its.  class  than  upon  the  tale  it- 
self; a  story  which  recounts  an  actual  occurrence  is 
much  less  exacting  than  one  which  attempts  to  de- 
pict manners;  and,  in  general,  the  more  the  writer 
relies  on  his  art,  the  more  difficult  is  his  task.  It 
is  therefore  both  possible  and  profitable  to  separate 
short  stories  into  definite  groups  and  to  consider 
them  collectively  rather  than  as  units.  This  clas- 
sification is  based  chiefly  upon  the  necessity  of  a 
plot,  the  purpose  or  aim  of  the  narrative,  and  the 
skill  and  care  required  for  its  successful  treatment. 
It  is  crude  and  arbitrary  from  a  literary  standpoint, 
for  a  good  short  story  is  capable  of  being  listed 
under  several  different  classes,  but  it  serves  our  prac- 
tical purpose.  Each  story  is  placed  according  to  its 
dominant  class;  and  the  classes  are  arranged  pro- 
gressively from  the  simplest  to  the  most  difficult  of 
treatment.  The  examples  are  presented  only  as 

26 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

definite  illustrations;  there  is  no  attempt  to  classify 
all  short  stories^  or  all  the  stories  of  any  particular 
author. 

I.  THE  TALE  is  the  relation,  in  an  interesting 
and  literary  form,  of  some  simple  incident  or  stir- 
ring fact.  It  has  no  plot  in  the  sense  that  there  is 
any  problem  to  unravel,  or  any  change  in  the  rela- 
tion of  the  characters;  it  usually  contains  action,  but 
chiefly  accidents  or  odd  happenings,  which  depend 
on  their  intrinsic  interest,  without  regard  to  their 
influence  on  the  lives  of  the  actors. 

(a)  It  is  often  a  genuine  True  Story,  jealously 
observant  of  facts,  and  embellished  only  to  the  ex- 
tent that  the  author  has  endeavored  to  make  his  style 
vivid  and  picturesque.  Such  stories  are  a  result  of 
the  tendency  of  the  modern  newspaper  to  present  its 
news  in  good  literary  form.  The  best  illustrations 
are  the  occasional  contributions  of  Ray  Stannard 
Baker  to  McClure's  Magazine. 

(&)  It  may,  however,  be  an  Imaginative  Tale, 
which  could  easily  happen,  but  which  is  the  work 
of  the  author's  imagination.  It  is  a  straightfor- 
ward narration  of  possible  events;  if  it  passes  the 
bounds  of  probability,  or  attempts  the  utterly  im- 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

possible,  it  becomes  a  Story  of  Ingenuity.  (Sec 
Class  VIII.)  It  has  no  love  element  and  no  plot; 
and  its  workmanship  is  loose.  The  best  examples 
are  the  stories  of  adventure  found  in  the  better  class 
of  boys'  and  children's  papers. 

II.  THE  MORAL  STORY,  in  spite  of  the  beau- 
tiful examples  left  us  by  Hawthorne,  is  usually 
too  baldly  didactic  to  attain  or  hold  a  high  place  in 
literature.  Its  avowed  purpose  is  to  preach,  and, 
as  ordinarily  written,  preach  it  does  in  the  most  de- 
termined way.  Its  plot  is  usually  just  sufficient  to 
introduce  the  moral.  It  is  susceptible  of  a  high  lit- 
erary polish  in  the  hands  of  a  master ;  but  when  at- 
tempted by  a  novice  it  is  apt  to  degenerate  into  a 
mess  of  moral  platitudes. 

(a)  The  Fable  makes  no  attempt  to  disguise  its 
didactic  purpose,  but  publishes  it  by  a  final  labelled 
"  Moral,"  which  epitomizes  the  lesson  it  conveys.  In 
Fables  the  characters  are  often  animals,  endowed 
with  all  the  attributes  of  men.  It  early  lost  favor 
because  of  its  bald  didacticism,  and  for  the  last  cen- 
tury has  been  practiced  only  occasionally.  To-day  it 
is  used  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  burlesque  and  sat- 
ire, as  in  George  Ade's  "  Fables  in  Slang."  JEsop. 

28 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

is  of  course  the  immortal  example  of  this  sort  of 
story. 

(b)  The  Story  with  a  Moral  attempts  to  sugar- 
coat  its  sermon  with  a  little  narrative.     It  sticks 
rather  closely  to  facts,  and  has  a  slight  plot,  which 
shows,  or  is  made  to  show,  the    consequences    of 
drinking,  stealing,  or  some  other  sin.     Usually  it. 
is  either  brutally  realistic  or  absurdly  exaggerated; 
but  that  it  can  be  given  literary  charm  is  proved  by 
Hawthorne's  use  of  it.     Maria  Edgeworth  is  easily 
the  "  awful  example  "  of  this  class,  and  her  stories, 
such  as  "  Murad  the  Unlucky  "  and  "  The  Grateful 
Negro,"  are  excellent  illustrations  of  how   not   to 
write.     Many  of  Hawthorne's  tales  come  under  this 
head,  especially  "  Lady  Eleanor's  Mantle,"  "  The 
Ambitious    Guest,"    and    "Miss    Bullfrog."     The 
stories  of  Miss  Wilkins  usually  have  a  strong  moral 
element,  but  they  are  better  classed  in  a  later  di- 
vision.    (See  Class  IV.)     Contemporary  examples 
of  this  style  of  writing  may  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
most  Sunday  School  and  Temperance  papers. 

(c)  The  Allegory  is  the  only  really  literary  form 
of  the  Moral  Story,  and  the  only  one  which  survives 
to-day.     It  has  a  strong  moral  purpose,  but  disguises 
it  under  the  pretense  of  a  well-told  story;  so  that 

29 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

it  is  read  for  its  story  alone,  and  the  reader  is  con- 
scious of  its  lesson  only  when  he  has  finished  the  nar- 
rative. It  usually  personifies  or  gives  concrete  form 
to  the  various  virtues  and  vices  of  men.  Examples : 
Hawthorne's  "The  Birthmark,"  "  Rappocini's 
.  Daughter,"  and  "  Feathertop."  Allegories  which  de- 
serve the  name  are  sometimes  found  in  current  peri- 
odicals. 

III.  THE  WEIRD  STORY  owes  its  interest  to 
the  innate  love  of  the  supernatural  or  unexplaina- 
ble  which  is  a  part  of  our  complex  human  nature — 
the  same  feeling  which  prompts  a  group  of  children 
to  beg  for  "  just  one  more  "  ghost  story,  while  they 
are  still  shaken  with  the  terror  of  the  last  one.  It 
may  have  a  definite  plot  in  which  supernatural  beings 
are  actors;  but  more  often  it  is  slight  in  plot,  but  con- 
tains a  careful  psychological  study  of  some  of  the 
less  pleasant  emotions. 

(a)  The  Ghost  Story  usually  has  a  definite  plot, 
in  which  the  ghost  is  an  actor.  The  ghost  may  be 
a  "  really  truly  "  apparition,  manifesting  itself  by 
the  conventional  methods,  and  remaining  unex- 
plained to  the  end,  as  in  Irving's  "  The  Sceptre  Bride- 
groom," and  Kipling's  "  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw;  " 

30 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

or  it  may  prove  to  be  the  result  of  a  superstitious 
mind  dwelling  upon  perfectly  natural  occurrences, 
as  in  Irving's  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,"  and 
Wilkins'  "  A  Gentle  Ghost."  It  requires  art  chiefly 
to  render  it  plausible;  particularly  in  the  latter  case, 
when  the  mystery  must  be  carefully  kept  up  until 
the  denouement. 

(£>)  The  Fantastic  Tale  treats  of  the  lighter 
phases  of  the  supernatural.  Its  style  might  be  well 
described  as  whimsical,  its  purpose  is  to  amuse  by 
means  of  playful  fancies,  and  it  usually  exhibits  .a 
delicate  humor.  The  plot  is  slight  and  subordinate. 
Examples :  Hawthorne's  "  A  Select  Party,"  "  The 
Hall  of  Fantasy,"  and  "  Monsieur  du  Miroir;  "  and 
most  of  our  modern  fairy  tales. 

(c)  The  Study  in  Horror  was  first  made  popu- 
lar by  Poe,  and  he  has  had  almost  no  successful  imi- 
tators. It  is  unhealthy  and  morbid,  full  of  a  terri- 
ble charm  if  well  done,  but  tawdry  and  disgusting 
if  bungled.  It  requires  a  daring  imagination,  a  full 
and  facile  vocabulary,  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous to  hold  these  two  in  check.  The  plot  is  used 
only  to  give  the  setting  to  the  story.  Most  any  of 
Poe's  tales  would  serve  as  an  illustration,  but  "  The 
Pit  and  the  Pendulum,"  and  "  The  Fall  of  the  House 

3' 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

of  Usher  "  are  particularly  apt.  Doyle  has  done 
some  work  approaching  Poe's,  but  his  are  better 
classed  as  Stories  of  Ingenuity.  (See  Class  VIII.) 

IV.  THE  CHARACTER  STUDY  is  a  short 
story  in  which  the  chief  interest  rests  in  the  develop- 
ment and  exposition  of  human  character.  It  may 
treat  of  either  a  type  or  an  individual.  /  Good  charac- 
ter delineation  is  one  of  the  surest  proofs  of  a  wri- 
ter's literary  ability/ 

(a)  When  the  character  depicted  is  inactive  the 
resultant  work  is  not  really  a  story.  It  usually  has 
no  plot,  and  is  properly  a  Sketch,  in  which  the  au- 
thor makes  a  psychological  analysis  of  his  subject. 
It  inclines  to  superficiality  and  is  liable  to  degener- 
ate into  a  mere  detailed  description  of  the  person. 
It  demands  of  the  writer  the  ability  to  catch  strik- 
ing details  and  to  present  them  vividly  and  interest- 
ingly. Examples :  Hawthorne's  "  Sylph  Ether- 
ege  "  and  "  Old  Esther  Dudley;  "  Poe's  "  The  Man 
of  the  Crowd;  "  James'  "  Greville  Fane  "  and  "  Sir 
Edmund  Orme;  "  Stevenson's  "  Will  o'  the  Mill;  " 
Wilkins'  "  The  Scent  of  the  Roses  "  and  "  A  Village 
Lear." 

(fe)  When  the  character  described  is  active  we 
have  a  Character  Study  proper,  built  upon  a  plot 

39 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

which  gives  the  character  opportunity  to  work  out 
his  own  personality  before  us  by  means  of  speech  and 
action.  The  plot  is  subordinated  to  the  character 
sketching.  The  psychological  analysis  is  not  pre- 
sented by  the  author  in  so  many  words,  but  is  de- 
duced by  the  reader  from  his  observation  of  the 
character.  Such  studies  constitute  one  of  the  high- 
est art  forms  of  the  short  story,  for  the  characters 
must  live  on  the  printed  page.  The  short  stories 
of  Henry  James  and  of  Miss  Wilkins  could  almost 
be  classed  in  toto  under  this  head;  Miss  Wilkins' 
characters  are  usually  types,  while  those  of  James 
are  more  often  individual,  though  rather  unusual. 
Other  good  examples  are  Hawthorne's  "  Edward 
Randolph's  Portrait;  "  Irving's  "  The  Devil  and 
Tom  Walker,"  and  "  Wolfert  Weber;  "  Stevenson's 
"  Markheim"  and  "  The  Brown  Box;  "  and  Davis' 
"Van  Bibber,"  as  depicted  in  the  several  stories 
of  "  Van  Bibber  and  Others." 

Notice  that  in  both  subdivisions  nearly  every  ti- 
tle embodies  a  reference  to  the  character  described, 
showing  that  the  author  intentionally  set  out  to 
sketch  a  character. 

V.  THE  DIALECT  STORY  might  be  considered 
as  a  subdivision  of  the  preceding  class,  since  it -is 

33 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

in  effect  a  Character  Study;  but  its  recent  popularity 
seems  to  warrant  its  being  treated  separately.  Its 
chief  distinction  is  that  it  is  written  in  the  broken 
English  used  by  the  uneducated  classes  of  our  own 
country,  and  by  foreigners.  Its  plot  is  either  very 
slight  or  hopelessly  hackneyed,  and  it  is  redeemed 
from  sheer  commonplace  only  by  its  picturesque  lan- 
guage. It  is  usually  told  in  the  first  person  by  some 
English-murdering  ignoramus*  It  is  simple,  and 
sometimes  has  a  homely  pathos.  It  may  present 
character  as  either  active  or  inactive,  though  usu- 
ally the  former.  Its  excuse  for  existence  is  that  it 
gives  truthful  expression,  in  their  own  language,  to 
the  thoughts  of  certain  classes  of  society ;  but  as  writ- 
ten by  the  amateur  the  dialect  is  a  fearful  and  won- 
derful combination  of  incorrect  English  that  was 
never  heard  from  the  mouth  of  any  living  man.  Joel 
Chandler  Harris'  "  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus  "  con- 
tains genuine  dialect;  other  varieties  correctly  han- 
dled may  be  found  in  almost  any  of  the  stories  of 
George  Washington  Cable,  Ian  Maclaren,  and  Miss 
Wilkins. 

The  Dialect  Story  as  literature  and  as  a  field  for 
the  novice  is  considered  at  length  in  Chapter  VI. 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

VI.  THE  PARABLE  OF  THE  TIMES  is  a 
short  story  which  aims  to  present  a  vivid  picture  of 
our  own  times,  either  to  criticise  some  existing  evil, 
or  to  entertain  by  telling  us  something  of  how  "  the 
other  half  "  of  the  world  lives.  It  is  in  a  sense  a 
further  development  of  The  Tale  ( Class  I. ) ,  though 
it  has  a  more  definite  plot.  It  is  the  most  favored 
form  of  the  short  story  to-day,  and  its  popularity  is 
responsible  for  a  mess  of  inane  commonplace  and 
bald  realism  that  is  written  by  amateurs,  who  think 
they  are  presenting  pen  pictures  of  life.  For  since 
its  matter  is  gathered  from  our  everyday  lives,  it 
requires  some  degree  of  skill  to  make  such  narratives 
individual  and  interesting. 

(a)  The  Instructive  Story  of  this  class  may  be 
further  subdivided  as  (i)  that  which  puts  present 
day  problems  in  concrete  form,  with  no  attempt  at 
a  solution;  and  (2)  that  which  not  only  criticises, 
but  attempts  also  to  correct.  In  either  case,  it  aims 
to  reform  by  education;  it  deals  with  actual  prob- 
lems of  humanity  rather  than  with  abstract  moral 
truths;  and  it  seeks  to  amuse  always,  and  to  reform 
if  possible.  It  must  not  be  confused  with  the  Moral 
Story  of  Class  II.  Octave  Thanet  writes  this  style 
of  story  almost  exclusively,  and  any  of  her  work 

35 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

selected  at  random  would  be  a  good  illustration; 
her  "  Sketches  of  American  Types  "  would  be  listed 
under  (i),  and  such  stories  as  "The  Scab"  and 
"Trusty  No.  49"  under  (2).  Under  (i)  would 
come  also  Brander  Matthews'  "  Vignettes  of  Man- 
hattan; "  and  under  (2)  Edward  Everett  Hale's 
"  The  Man  Without  a  Country  "  and  "  Children  of 
the  Public." 

(fc)  The  most  usual  story  of  this  class  is  the 
Story  of  To-day,  which  uses  present  day  conditions 
as  a  background,  and  which  endeavors  only  to  amuse 
and  interest  the  reader.  Naturally,  however,  since 
the  scenes  and  persons  described  must  be  new  to 
the  reader,  such  a  story  is  also  educating  and  broad- 
ening in  its  influence.  Its  plot  may  seem  trivial 
when  analyzed,  but  it  is  selected  with  a  view  more 
to  naturalness  than  to  strength  or  complexity.  Here 
we  should  list  nearly  all  of  our  modern  so-called 
"  society  stories,"  and  "  stories  of  manners."  Any 
of  Richard  Harding  Davis'  short  stories  will  serve 
as  an  excellent  illustration,  and  most  of  the  stories 
in  current  periodicals  belong  in  the  same  category. 

VII.  THE  STORY  OF  INGENUITY  is  one 
of  the  most  modern  forms  of  the  short  story,  and, 

36 


•      SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

if  I  may  be  pardoned  the  prolixity,  one  of  the  most 
ingenious.  It  might  be  called  the  "  fairy  tale  of 
the  grown-up,"  for  its  interest  depends  entirely  upon 
its  appeal  to  the  love  for  the  marvelous  which  no 
human  being  ever  outgrows.  It  requires  fertility 
of  invention,  vividness  of  imagination,  and  a  plaus- 
ible and  convincing  style.  Yet  it  is  an  easy  sort  of 
story  to  do  successfully,  since  ingenuity  will  atone 
for  many  technical  faults;  but  it  usually  lacks  se- 
rious interest  and  is  short  lived.  Poe  was  the  orig- 
inator and  great  exemplar  of  the  Story  of  Ingenuity, 
and  all  of  his  tales  possess  this  cleverness  in  some 
degree. 

(a)  The  Story  of  Wonder  has  little  plot.  It  is 
generally  the  vivid  description  of  some  amazing  dis- 
covery (Poe's  "  Some  Words  with  a  Mummy," 
Hale's  "The  Spider's  Eye"),  impossible  invention 
(Adee's  "The  Life  Magnet,"  Mitchell's  "The 
Ablest  Man  in  the  World"),  astounding  adventure 
(Stockton's  "Wreck  of  the  Thomas  Hyde,"  Ste- 
venson's "  House  with  Green  Blinds  "),  or  a  vivid 
description  of  what  might  be  (Benjamin's  "The 
End  of  New  York,"  Poe's  "  The  Domain  of  Arn- 
heim  ").  It  demands  unusual  imaginative  power. 

(fr)  The  Detective  Story  requires  the  most  com- 
37 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

plex  plot  of  any  type  of  short  story,  for  its  inter- 
est depends  solely  upon  the  solution  of  the  mystery 
presented  in  that  plot.  It  arouses  in  the  human 
mind  much  the  same  interest  as  an  algebraic  prob- 
lem, which  it  greatly  resembles.  Poe  wrote  the 
first,  and  probably  the  best,  one  in  "  The  Murders 
in  the  Rue  Morgue;  "  his  "  The  Mystery  of  Marie 
Roget "  and  "  The  Gold  Bug  "  are  other  excellent 
examples.  Doyle,  in  his  "  Sherlock  Holmes  "  sto- 
ries, is  a  worthy  successor  of  Poe. 

VIII.  THE  HUMOROUS  STORY  almost  be- 
longs in  the  category  of  Stories  of  Ingenuity,  so 
largely  does  it  depend  upon  the  element  of  the  un- 
usual; but  for  that  fact  it  should  have  been  listed 
earlier,  because  it  has  little  care  for  plot.  Indeed, 
these  stories  are  the  freest  of  all  in  their  disregard 
for  conventions;  with  them  it  is  "anything  to  raise 
a  laugh,"  and  the  end  is  supposed  to  justify  the 
means.  In  general  they  are  of  transient  interest 
and  crude  workmanship,  little  fitted  to  be  called 
classics;  but  Mark  Twain,  at  least,  has  shown  us 
that  humor  and  art  are  not  incompatible. 

(a)  The  simplest  form  is  the  Nonsense  Story,  as 
it  may  be  justly  called.  Usually  it  has  the  merest 


thread  of  plot,  but  contains  odd  or  grotesque  char- 
acters whose  witty  conversation  furnishes  all  the 
amusement  necessary.  If  the  characters  do  act  they 
have  an  unfortunate  tendency  to  indulge  in  horse 
play.  The  work  of  John  Kendrick  Bangs  well  il- 
lustrates this  type  of  story.  His  books,  "  The  House 
Boat  on  the  Styx  "  and  "  The  Pursuit  of  the  House 
Boat,"  are  really  only  collections  of  short  stories, 
for  each  chapter  can  be  considered  as  a  whole. 

(b)  The  Burlesque  has  a  plot,  but  usually  one 
which  is  absurdly  impossible,  or  which  is  treated 
in  a  burlesque  style.  The  amusement  is  derived 
chiefly  from  the  contrast  between  the  matter  and  the 
method  of  its  presentation.  Most  of  Stockton's 
stories  are  of  this  type :  notably  his  "  The  Lady,  or 
the  Tiger?"  Mark  Twain,  too,  usually  writes  in 
this  vein,  as  in  "  The  Jumping  Frog  "  and  "  The 
Stolen  White  Elephant." 

IX.  THE  DRAMATIC  STORY  is  the  highest 
type  of  the  short  story.  It  requires  a  definite  but 
simple  plot,  which  enables  the  characters  to  act  out 
their  parts.  In  its  perfect  form  it  is  the  "  bit  of  real 
life  "  which  it  is  the  aim  of  the  short  story  to  pre- 
sent. It  is  the  story  shorn  of  all  needless  verbiage, 

39 


and  told  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  words  and  ac- 
tions of  the  characters  themselves;  and  it  possesses 
a  strong  climax.  Therefore  it  demands  the  most  care- 
ful and  skillful  workmanship,  from  its  conception  to 
its  final  polishing1.  It  is  the  most  modern  type  of  the 
short  story. 

(a)  The  short  story  has  Dramatic  Form  when 
the  author's  necessary  comments  correspond  to  the 
stage  .directions  of  the  drama.  Such  a  story  is,  in 
fact,  a  miniature  drama,  and  is  often  capable  of  be- 
ing acted  iust  as  it  stands.  It  has  a  definite  plot, 
but  it  is  developed  by  dialogue  as  frequently  as  by 
action.  It  is  the  extreme  of  the  modern  tendency 
toward  dramatic  narrative,  and  is  just  a  little  too 
"  stagey  "  and  artificial  to  be  a  perfect  short  story. 
It  is,  however,  in  good  literary  standing  and  in  good 
favor  with  the  public,  and  it  is  most  excellent  prac- 
tise for  the  tyro,  for  in  it  he  has  to  sink  himself 
completely  in  his  characters.  Examples:  Hope's 
"The  Dolly  Dialogues;  "  Kipling's  "The  Story  of 
the  Gadsbys;  "  and  Howells'  one  act  parlor  plays, 
like  "  The  Parlor  Car,"  "  The  Register,"  "  The 
Letter,"  and  "  Unexpected  Guests." 

(&)  A  short  story  has  Dramatic  Effect  when  it 
deals  with  a  single  crisis,  conveys  a  single  impres- 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

sion,  is  presented  chiefly  by  the  actors  themselves, 
and  culminates  in  a  single,  perfect  climax.  It  may, 
or  may  not,  be  capable  of  easy  dramatization.  It  is 
less  artificial  than  the  story  of  pure  Dramatic  Form, 
but  is  just  as  free  from  padding  and  irrelevant  mat- 
ter, and  just  as  vivid  in  effect.  It  allows  of  greater 
art  and  finish,  for  the  writer  has  wider  freedom  in 
his  method  of  presentation.  Examples:  Poe's 
"  '  Thou  Art  the  Man! '  "  and  "  Berenice;  "  James' 
"  The  Lesson  of  the  Master  "  and  "  A  Passionate 
Pilgrim;"  Wilkins'  "A  New  England  Nun"  and 
"  Amanda  and  Love; ''  Stevenson's  "  The  Isle  of  the 
Voices;  "  and  Irving' s  "  The  Widow  and  Her  Son  " 
and  "  Rip  Van  Winkle."  But,  indeed,  every  good 
short  story  belongs  in  this  class,  which  is  not  so  much 
a  certain  type  of  the  short  story,  as  the  "honor 
class  "  to  which  each  story  seeks  admittance. 

Every  story  cited  in  this  book,  unless  otherwise 
located,  can  be  found  in  one  of  the  appended  pub- 
lished collections  of  short  stories : 

George  Ade :  "  Fables  in  Slang." 

John  Kendrick  Bangs:  "The  Bicyclers;"  "Ghosts 
I  Have  Met ;  "  "  The  Houseboat  on  the  Styx ;  "  "  Man- 
tel-Piece Minstrels,  and  Other  Stories ;  "  "  Paste  Jew- 
els ;  "  "  The  Pursuit  of  the  Houseboat;  "  "  The  Water- 
Ghost  and  Others." 

41 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

J.  M.  Barrie:  "An  Auld  Licht  Manse;"  "  Auld 
Licht  Idyls." 

George  Washington  Cable :  "  Old  Creole  Days ;  " 
"  Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana." 

Samuel  L.  Clemens  (Mark  Twain)  :  "  Merry  Tales ;  " 
"  The  Stolen  White  Elephant." 

—•Richard  Harding  Davis :  "  Cinderella  and  Others :  " 
"  The  Exiles  and  Other  Stories ;  "  "  Gallegher,  and 
Other  Stories ;  "  "  The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn ;  "  "  Van 
Bibber  and  Others." 

Charles  Dickens :  "  Christmas  Books ;  "  "  Christmas 
Stories ;  "  "  Sketches  by  Boz." 

A.  Conan  Doyle :  "  The  Adventures  of  Sherlock 
Holmes ;  "  "  The  Captain  of  the  Pole  Star ;  "  "  The  Ex- 
ploits of  Brigadier  Girard;"  "Memoirs  of  Sherlock 
Holmes ;  "  "  My  Friend  the  Murderer ;  "  "  Round  the 
Red  Lamp." 

Maria  Edgeworth :  "  Popular  Tales." 

Alice  French  (Octave  Thanet) :  "  A  Book  of  True 
Lovers;"  "The  Missionary  Sheriff;"  "Stories  of  a 
Western  Town." 

H.  Rider  Haggard :  "  Allan's  Wife." 

Joel  Chandler  Harris :  "  Daddy  Jake,  the  Runaway ;  " 
"  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus ;  "  "  Tales  of  Home  Folks 
in  Peace  and  War." 

Bret  Harte :  "  Colonel  Starbottle's  Client ;  "  "  In  the 
Hollow  of  the  Hills ;  "  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp ;  " 
"Mrs.  Skagg's  Husbands;"  "Tales  of  the  Argo- 
nauts;" "Thankful  Blossom;"  "The  Story  of  a 
Mine." 


SHORT  STORIES  CLASSIFIED 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne :  "  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse;  "  "  Twice  Told  Tales."  _ 

Anthony  Hope :  "  The  Dolly  Dialogues." 

William  Dean  Howells :  "  A  Fearful  Responsibility 
and  Other  Stories;"  "The  Mouse-Trap  and  Other 
Farces ;  "  "  The  Sleeping  Car  and  Other  Farces." 

Washington  Irving:  "The  Sketch  Book;"  "Tales 
of  a  Traveler." 

Henry  James :  "  The  Aspern  Papers ;  "  "  The  Author 
of  Beltraffio ;  "  "  The  Lesson  of  the  Master ;  "  "  A  Lon- 
don Life;"  "A  Passionate  Pilgrim;"  "The  Real 
Thing." 

^•Rudyard  Kipling:  "The  Day's  Work;"  "In  Black 
and  White;"  "Indian  Tales;"  "The  Jungle  Book;" 
"  Life's  Handicap ;  "  "  Many  Inventions ;  "  "  The 
Phantom  'Rickshaw ;  "  "  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills ;  " 
"  The  Second  Jungle  Book ;  "  "  Soldiers  Three  and 
Military  Tales;"  "Soldier  Stories;"  "Under  the 
Deodars." 

Brander  Matthews :  "  Outlines  in  Local  Color ; " 
"  Tales  of  Fantasy  and  Fact ;  "  "  Vignettes  of  Man- 
hattan." 

Guy  de  Maupassant :  "  The  Odd  Number." 

Thomas  Nelson  Page :  "  The  Burial  of  the  Guns ; " 
"  In  Ole  Virginia." 

Scribner's  series :  "  Short  Stories  by  American  Au- 
thors." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson :  "  The  Island  Nights'  En- 
tertainments ;  "  "  The  Merry  Men ;  "  "  New  Arabian 
Nights." 


43 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

Frank  R.  Stockton :  "  Amos  Kilbright ;  "  "  The  Lady, 
or  the  Tiger?  "  "  Rudder  Grange;  "  "  A  Story  Teller's 
Pack." 

John  Watson  (Ian  Maclaren) :  "  Auld  Lang  Syne;  " 
"  Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush." 

Mary  E.  Wilkins:  "A  Humble  Romance;"  "The 
Love  of  Parson  Lord ;  "  "A  New  England  Nun ; " 
"The  Pot  of  Gold;"  "Silence;"  "Young  Lucretia." 


Ill 

THE  PLOT 

THE  plot  is  the  nucleus  of  the  story,  the  bare 
thought  or  incident  upon  which  the  narrative  is  to 
be  builded.  When  a  child  says,  "  Grandma,  tell 
me  the  story  of  how  the  whale  swallowed  Jonah," 
he  gives  the  plot  of  the  story  that  he  desires;  and 
the  grandmother  proceeds  to  elaborate  that  primal 
idea  to  suit  the  taste  of  her  auditor.  |  In  like  man- 
ner, before  you  put  pen  to  paper,  you  must  have 
in  mind  some  interesting  idea  which  you  wish  to 
express  in  narrative  form;  the  absence  of  such  an 
idea  means  that  you  have  no  plot,  no  story  to  tell, 
and  therefore  have  no  business  to  be  writing  If  you 
undertake  to  tell  a  short  story,  go  about  it  in  a  work- 
manlike manner:  don't  begin  scribbling  pretty 
phrases,  and  trust  to  Providence  to  introduce  the 
proper  story,  but  yourself  provide  the  basic  facts. 
If  you  do  not  begin  correctly,  it  is  useless  for  you 
to  begin  at  all. 

A  plot  implies  action — that  is,  something  must 
45 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

happen;  at  the  conclusion  of  the  story  the  characters 
must  be  differently  situated,  and  usually  differently 
related  one  to  another,  from  what  they  were  at  the 
beginning.  I  The  event  need  not  be  tragic,  or  even 
serious ;  but  it  must  be  of  sufficient  importance,  nov- 
elty and  interest  to  justify  its  relation  in  narrative 
form.  In  general  the  plot  of  a  short  story  involves 
an  incident  or  a  minor  crisis  in  a  human  life,  rather 
than  the  supreme  crisis  which  makes  or  mars  a  man 
for  good.  The  chief  reason  for  this  is  that  the 
supreme  crisis  requires  more  elaborate  preparation 
and  treatment  than  is  possible  in  the  short  story. 
There  may  be  a  strong  tragic  element  which  makes 
it  seem  that  the  denouement  must  be  tragic,  but 
that  is  usually  to  obtain  the  effect  of  contrast.  Yet 
the  short  story  may  be  a  supreme  crisis  and  a  tra- 
gedy, as  are  Stevenson's  "  Markheim,"  Hawthorne's 
"  The  Ambitious  Guest  "  *  and  "  The  Birthmark," 
and  many  of  Poe's  tales;  but  these  are  stories  of  an 
exceptional  type,  in  which  the  whole  life  of  the  chief 
actor  comes  to  a  focus  in  the  crisis  which  makes  the 
story. 

<"The  Ambitious  Guest,"  because  of  its  technical  perfec- 
tion and  its  apt  illustration  of  the  principles  discussed,  will  be 
used  throughout  as  a  paradigm.  It  can  be  found  in  full  in  the 
Appendix. — THE  AUTHOR. 

46 


THE  PLOT 

The  short  story  plot  must  be  simple  and  complete. 
The  popular  idea  of  a  plot,  derived  from  the  re- 
quirements of  the  novel  and  the  drama,  is  that  it 
should  be  a  tangled  skein  of  facts  and  fancies,  which 
the  author  shall  further  complicate  in  order  to  ex- 
hibit his  deftness  in  the  final  disentanglement.  Such 
a  plot  is  impossible  for  the  short  story,  which  admits  - 
of  no  side  issues  and  no  second  or  under  plot.  It 
must  not  be  the  synopsis  of  a  novel,  or  the  attempt 
to  compress  into  the  tiny  compass  of  the  short  story 
a  complicated  plot  sufficient  for  a  novel,  as  are  so 
many  of  the  "  Short  Stories  of  the  Day  "  now  pub- 
lished by  newspapers.  I  As  nearly  as  possible  it  must 
deal  with  a  single  person,  in  a  single  action,  at  a  sin-  7  J 
gle  place,  in  a  single  time/  More  than  any  other 
modern  form  of  literature,  the  short  story  requires  . 
the  observance  of  the  old  Greek  unities  of  time,  place 
and  action :  its-  brevity  and  compactness  do  not  ad- 
mit of  the  proper  treatment  of  the  changes  wrought 
by  the  passage  of  time,  the  influences  of  different 
scenes,  or  the  complications  resulting  from  the  in- 
terrelation of  many  characters  of  varied  importance. 
If  the  plot  chosen  requires  the  passage  of  ten  years' 
time,  if  it  involves  a  shift  of  scene  from  New  York 
to  Timbuctoo,  or  if  it  introduces  two  or  three  sets 

47 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

of  characters,  it  may  by  some  miracle  of  ingenuity 
make  a  readable  story,  but  it  will  never  be  a  model 
one.  In  "  The  Ambitious  Guest  "  the  time  is  less 
than  three  hours,  the  place  is  a  single  room,  and  the 
action  is  the  development  of  the  guest's  ambition. 

Yet  the  plot  is  only  relatively  important.  It  must 
always  be  present  or  there  is  no  story;  but  once  there 
it  takes  second  place.  The  short  story  is  not  written 
to  exploit  the  plot,  however  clever  that  may  be,  but 
to  give,  a.. glimpse  of  real  life;  and  the  plot  is  only 
a  means  to  that  end.  This  is  well  illustrated  by  the 
Character  Study,  in  which  the  real  interest  centres 
in  the  analysis  and  exposition  of  a  character,  and  the 
plot  is  incidental.  In  many  classes  of  stories,  as 
we  have  already  observed,  the  plot  is  used  only  to 
hold  the  narrative  together,  and  the  interest  depends 
on  the  attractiveness  of  the  picture  presented.  The 
plot  must  not  be  allowed  to  force  itself  through  the 
fabric  of  the  story,  like  the  protruding  ribs  of  a  half- 
starved  horse;  but  must  be  made  to  give  form  and 
substantialitv  to  the  word-flesh  which  covers  it. 

In  Detective  Stories,  however,  the  plot  is  all-im- 
portant, for  the  interest  depends  entirely  upon  the 
unraveling  of  some  tangle;  but  even  here  it  must 
contain  but  a  single  idea,  though  that  may  be  rather 

48 


THE  PLOT 

involved.  Such  stories  are  really  much  simpler  than 
they  appear,  for  their  seeming  complexity  consists 
in  telling  the  story  backwards,  and  so  reasoning 
from  effect  to  cause,  rather  than  vice  versa  as  in  the 
ordinary  tale.  The  plot  itself  is  simple  enough,  as 
may  be  proved  by  working  backward  through  Poe's 
"  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue."  This  is,  by  the 
way,  a  method  of  plot-making  which  is  often,  and 
incorrectly,  employed  by  novices  in  the  construction 
of  any  story.  It  has  been  aptly  called  "  building  the 
pyramid  from  the  apex  downward."  *  It  results 
from  an  exaggerated  conception  of  the  importance 
of  the  plot.  1  But  it  is  not  so  much  what  the  charac- 
ters do,  that  interests  us,  but  how  they  do  it.  v 

"  The  true  method  for  the  making  of  a  plot  is 
the  development  of  what  may  be  called  a  plot-germ. 
Take  two  or  three  characters,  strongly  individualized 
morally  and  mentally,  place  them  in  a  strong  situa- 
tion and  let  them  develop.  ....  There  are  hun- 
dreds of  these  plot-germs  in  our  every-day  life,  con- 
versation and  newspaper  reading,  and  the  slightest 
change  in  the  character  at  starting  will  give  a  wide 
difference  in  ending Change  the  country 

*"Have  the  Plots  Been  Exhausted?"    Editorial  Comment. 
Current  Literature.    June,  '06. 

49 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

and  the  atmosphere  is  changed,  the  elements  are  sub- 
jected to  new  influences  which  develop  new  inci- 
dents and  so  a  new  plot Change  any  vital 

part  in  any  character  and  the  plot  must  be  different. 
One  might  almost  say  two  plots  thus  developed  from 
the  same  plot-germ  can  have  no  greater  resemblance 
than  two  shells  cast  up  by  the  ocean."  *  "  In  the 
evolution  of  a  plot  the  main  things  to  be  considered 
are  that  it  shall  be  reasonably  interesting,  that  it 
shall  not  violate  probability,  and  that  it  shall  possess 
some  originality  either  of  subject  or  of  treatment. 
Not  the  possible,  but  the  probable,  should  be  the 
novelist's  guide."f 

The  surest  test  of  a  usable  plot  is,  "  Is  it  natural  ?  " 
Every  plot  is  founded  upon  fact,  which  may  be  util- 
ized in  its  original  form,  or  so  skillfully  disguised  or 
ingeniously  distorted  that  it  will  seem  like  a  product 
of  the  imagination.  In  the  first  case  the  resulting 
story  would  be  termed  realistic,  in  the  second  case 
romantic.  A  story  built  on  a  plot  that  is  an  unvar- 
nished fact  will  be  of  course  a  True  Story;  and  there 
are  incidents  and  events  in  real  life  that  need  little 


*"Have  the  Plots  Been  Exhausted?"  Editorial  Comment. 
Current  Literature.  June,  "96. 

t "  Rudimentary  Suggestions  for  Beginners  in  Story  Writ- 
ing," by  E.  F.  Andrews.  Cosmopolitan.  Feb.,  '97. 

50 


THE  PLOT 

more  than  isolation  to  make  them  good  stories. 
There  is,  however,  a  danger  that  the  novice  may  con- 
sider any  matter  usable  which  is  true  to  life.  Do 
not  forget  that  the  short  story  is  a  form  of  art.* 

The  best  plot  is  derived  from  the  action  of  an  ar- 
tistic imagination  on  a  commonplace  fact;  the  simpler 
and  better  known  the  fact  is,  the  better  will  it  serve  • 
the  purpose,  for  it  must  be  accepted  without  ques- 
tion :  then  it  must  be  built  up  and  developed  by  imag- 
inative touches,  always  with  a  view  to  plausibility, 
till  it  attains  the  dignity  of  a  distinct  and  interesting 
plot.     Recent   discoveries  and  the   attainments   of 
modern   science   have   introduced   us   to   so   many 
strange  things  that  we  have  almost  ceased  to  doubt 
any  statement  which  we  may  see  in  print;   and  wri- 
ters have  become  so  ingenious  in  weaving  together 
fact  and  fancv  that  their  tales  are  sometimes  more 
plausible  than  truth  itself.     This  was  done  with  pe- 
culiar skill  by  Poe.    His  story,  now  known  as  "  The 
Balloon  Hoax,"  originally  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Sun  as  a  correspondent's  account  of  an  actual  occur- 
rence.   The  tale  gained  credence  through  its  remark- 
able accuracy  of  detail  in  regard  to  recognized  scien- 


*  For  a  complete  discussion  of  the  proper  use  of  facts  in 
fiction  see  Chapter  V. — THE  AUTHOR. 

5* 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

tific  principles,  and  the  fact  that  at  that  time  the 
world  was  considerably  agitated  by  similar  genuine 
feats  of  aerostation.  As  Poe  makes  one  of  his  char- 
acters to  say,  "  the  feat  is  only  so  feasible  that  the 
sole  wonder  is  why  men  have  scrupled  to  attempt  it 
before  " — at  least  on  paper. 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  many  curious  and  interesting 
things  that  happen  daily,  and  in  spite  of  the  inventive 
faculty  of  the  mind,  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  new  plot. 
"  History  repeats  itself  "  in  small  affairs  as  well  as 
in  great,  and  the  human  mind  has  not  changed  ma- 
terially since  the  first  days  of  story  telling.  Indeed, 
some  one  has  said  that  all  the  stories  ever  told  can 
be  traced  to  less  than  a  dozen  original  plots,  whose 
origin  is  lost  in  obscurity.  \  But  if  we  can  neither 
find  nor  invent  a  new  story  we  can  at  least  ring  the 
changes  on  the  old  ones,  and  in  this  lies  our  hope  to- 
day. Each  one  of  these  old  plots  is  capable  of  an 
infinite  variety  of  phases,  and  what  we  are  constantly 
hailing  as  an  original  story  is  merely  one  of  our  old 
friends  looked  at  from  a  different  point  of  view. 
How  many  good,  fresh  stories  have  you  read  that 
were  based  on  the  ancient  elemental  plot  of  two  men 
in  love  with  one  woman,  or  on  that  equally  hoary 
one  of  fond  lovers  severed  by  disapproving  parents  ? 

5* 


THE  PLOT 

Irving's  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  "  is  derived 
from  the  first,  yet  few  readers  would  so  recognize  it 
on  first  perusal ;  for  unless  you  stop  and  analyze  it,  it 
seems  distinct  and  new. 

For  further  illustration  of  this  reworking  of  old 
ideas,  I  have  carefully  searched  the  leading  Ameri- 
can magazines  for  March,  1900,  for  short  stories 
based  upon  the  old,  old  elemental  plot  of  two  men  in 
love  with  one  woman,  and  append  herewith  rough 
synopses  of  such  stories.  Note  that  this  one  num- 
ber of  The  Munsey  contains  no  less  than  three  sto- 
ries with  this  basic  plot. 

The  Munsey. 
"  The  Folly  of  It,"  by  Ina  Brevoort. 

Fred  Leighton  and  John  Marchmont  are  in  love  with 
Angela.  She  loves  Leighton,  but  they  have  agreed 
that  he  is  too  poor  to  make  their  married  life  happy. 
Marchmont,  who  is  rich,  proposes  to  her.  She  and 
Leighton  calmly  discuss  the  situation  at  their  last  dinner 
together  and  confirm  their  former  decision;  but  when 
the  matter  is  logically  settled  they  decide  to  defy  pov- 
erty and  marry. 

"  With  a  Second  to  Spare,"  by  Tom  Hall. 

Labarre  and  I  both  love  Nellie,  but  Nellie  marries 
me.  Labarre  leads  a  big  strike  on  the  railroad  by  which 
we  are  both  employed  as  engineers;  I  refuse  to  join. 

53 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

One  noon  Labarre  overpowers  me,  binds  me  on  the 
rails  between  the  wheels  of  my  engine,  and  starts  it 
moving  slowly  so  that  it  will  crush  me  by  twelve,  when 
Nellie  always  brings  my  dinner.  After  my  death  he 
expects  to  marry  her.  Nellie  arrives  and  releases  me 
just  in  the  nick  of  time.  (This  story  is  really  a  scene 
from  an  amateur  melodrama.) 

"  Mulligan's  Treachery,"  by  David  H.  Talmadge. 

Mulligan  and  Garvey  love  Ellen  Kelly.  They  agree 
not  to  take  advantage  of  each  other  in  wooing  her,  and 
go  to  the  Philippines  together  as  soldiers.  There  Gar- 
vey,  leading  a  charge,  is  shot  through  the  head,  but 
Mulligan  goes  on  and  receives  a  medal  for  his  bravery. 
Garvey  recovers,  but  is  blind  for  life.  On  their  re- 
turn to  America  Mulligan  finds  Ellen's  face  terribly 
mutilated  by  an  accident,  He  would  still  gladly  marry 
her;  but  he  makes  Garxey  believe  he  won  the  medal, 
tells  him  nothing  of  Ellen's  disfigurement,  and  brings 
about  their  marriage.  Then  he  is  conscience  stricken 
at  the  manner  in  which  he  has  taken  advantage  of  his 

friend's  disability. 

'  0     fc-u-v**-^ 

The  Cosmopolitan. 

"  The  Pilot  of  the  '  Sadie  Simmons/  "  by 
Joseph  Mills  Hanson. 

Tommy  Duncan,  a  Mississippi  River  pilot,  is  en- 
gaged to  Tillie  Vail.  Her  affections  are  alienated  by 
Jack  Cragg,  a  disreputable  steamboat  engineer,  whom 
Duncan,  believing  he  is  deceiving  the  girl,  threatens  to 

54 


THE  PLOT 

kill  on  sight.  Cragg  kills  a  man  in  a  drunken  brawl 
on  shore,  and  Duncan  assists  the  sheriff  to  save  him 
from  would-be  lynchers,  and  swears  to  protect  him,  be- 
fore he  knows  who  the  prisoner  is.  When  he  learns 
he  refuses  to  be  bound  by  his  oath,  but  as  he  is  about 
to  carry  out  his  threat  he  is  led  to  believe  that  Cragg 
honestly  loves  the  girl.  Cragg  is  attacked  by  a  mob, 
and,  though  he  cannot  swim,  jumps  into  the  river  to 
escape.  Duncan  rescues  him  and  loses  his  own  life. 
Cragg  reforms  and  marries  Tilly. 

Ainslee's  Magazine. 
"Mr.  Sixty's  Mistake,"  by  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

William  Lewis  loves  Lillian  Blythe.  His  brother 
Tom  comes  between  them  and  William  shoots  him  and 
flees  west  to  Pleasant  Valley,  where  he  goes  by  the 
name  of  "  Cockey  Smith  ".  One  night  he  tells  his 
story  to  his  companions.  Harry  Blythe,  brother  to 
Lillian,  Lewis'  old  friend,  and  now  sheriff  of  his  home 
county,  who  arrived  that  night,  overhears  him.  Blythe 
reveals  his  identity  to  "  Sixty  ",  the  butt  of  the  camp, 
and  tells  him  that  Tom  did  not  die  and  that  Lewis  can 
go  back  home,  where  Lillian  is  still  waiting  for  him. 
Sixty  breaks  the  news  to  Lewis  while  the  latter  is  mad 
with  drink,  and  Lewis,  thinking  the  sheriff  has  come  for 
him,  kills  him.  Later  he  shoots  himself. 

"  A  Kentucky  Welcome,"  by  Ewan  Macpherson. 

Edmund  Pierce,  a  New  Yorker,  is  in  love  with  Lucy 
Cabell,  a  Kentucky  belle ;  and  hearing  that  her  cousin, 

55 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

"  Brook  "  Cabell,  is  endangering  his  chances,  he  sets 
out  to  pay  Miss  Cabell  a  visit.  He  gets  off  at  the 
wrong  station  and  in  his  confusion  is  arrested  by  the 
local  marshal  as  a  Russian  diamond  robber.  He  tele- 
graphs to  the  Cabells,  and  Brook  rescues  him  at  the 
point  of  the  revolver,  though  he  knows  that  the 
Northerner  is  Miss  Cabell's  favorite. 

These  stories,  even  in  this  crude,  condensed  form, 
robbed  of  all  the  beauties  of  imagery  and  expression, 
reveal  the  virtues  which  won  for  them  editorial  ap- 
proval and  which  contribute  to  the  enjoyment  of 
their  readers.  Their  apparent  freshness  is  due  to 
the  treatment  of  a  thread-bare  plot  in  a  new  phase, 
and  the  phase,  in  turn,  depends  upon  the  introduc- 
tion of  some  new  element,  unimportant  in  itself,  per- 
haps, which  presents  the  old  story  in  the  new  light. 
"  The  Folly  of  It  "  is  the  best  illustration,  for  though 
its  plot  is  old  and  apparently  hopeless,  the  brightness 
and  naturalness  of  the  conversation  which  constitutes 
almost  the  entire  story  makes  it  most  readable.  In 
"  Mulligan's  Treachery  "  the  personality  of  Mulli- 
gan gives  the  necessary  freshness.  "  The  Pilot  of 
the  '  Sadie  Simmons '  "  depends  on  local  color  and 
the  interest  in  Duncan's  struggle  to  distinguish  right 
from  wrong.  And  so  some  little  freshness  of  treat- 
ment makes  each  of  the  others  a  good  story. 

56 


THE  PLOT 

These  vivifying  elements  are  by  no  means  ex- 
traordinary, or  difficult  to  find.  They  are  new  ideas 
concerning  old  subjects,  such  as  you  are  continually 
meeting  in  your  everyday  life  and  reading.  A  new 
character,  a  new  scene,  a  new  invention  or  discovery, 
or  merely  a  new  mental  bias  on  the  part  of  the  writer, 
will  work  wonders  in  the  revivifying  of  an  old  plot. 
•Think  how  many  new  phases  of  old  plots  have  been 
produced  recently  by  the  incorporation  of  the  "  X  " 
ray,  or  by  the  influence  of  the  war  with  Spain.  Try, 
<\  then,  to  get  a  new  light  on  the  plot  that  you  purpose 
to  use,  to  view  it  from  an  unexpected  side,  to  handle 
it  in  an  unusual  manner — in  short,  try  to  be  original. 
If  you  have  not  the  energy  or  the  ability  to  do  this, 
you  would  better  cease  your  literary  efforts  at  once, 
for  you  will  only  waste  your  time. 

"  But  ....  there  are  some  themes  so  hackneyed 
— such  as  the  lost  will,  the  glorified  governess,  or  the 
persecuted  maiden  who  turns  out  to  be  an  earl's 
daughter — that  they  would  not  now  be  tolerated  out- 
side the  pages  of  a  '  penny  dreadful,'  where,  along 
with  haughty  duchesses,  elfin-locked  gypsies  and 
murderous  abductors,  they  have  become  part  of  the 
regular  stock-in-trade  of  the  purveyors  of  back-stairs 
literature.  The  only  theme  that  never  grows  trite 

57 


or  commonplace  is  love."  *  "  Another  offense 
....  is  the  light  theme  that,  being  analyzed, 
amounts  to  nothing.  It  may  be  so  cleverly  handled 
that  we  read  with  pleasure — and  then  at  the  end  are 
disgusted  with  ourselves  for  being  pleased,  and  en- 
raged at  the  writer  for  deluding  us;  for  we  thought 
there  would  be  something  beneath  his  graceful  man- 
'ners  and  airy  persiflage,  and  lo,  there  is  not."  t 

The  plot  of  a  short  story  should  allow  of  expres- 
sion in  a  single  short,  fairly  simple  sentence;  if  it 
cannot  be  so  compressed  there  is  something  radically, 
wrong  with  it.  This  may  be  called  the  "  elemental  " 
or  "true"  plot.  .  It  will  be  in  general,  perhaps 
vague,  terms,  and  will  permit  differing  treatment 
by  different  writers;  yet  its  trend  and  its  outcome 
will  be  definitely  fixed.  This  true  plot,  in  turn,  can 
be  expressed  in  yet  more  general  terms,  often  as  the 
primal  truth  which  the  story  illustrates;  this  may  be 
called  the  "theme"  of  the  story.  Thus  in  "The 
Ambitious  Guest,"  the  theme  is  "  The  futility  of  ab- 
stracted ambition;  "  or,  in  its  most  general  terms, 
"  The  irony  of  fate."  The  true  plot  is: 


*  "  Rudimentary  Suggestions  for  Beginners  in  Story  Writ- 
ing," by  E.  F.  Andrews.  Cosmopolitan.  Feb.,  '97. 

t  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
erick M.  Bird.  Lippincotfs.  Nov.,  '94. 

58 


THE  PLOT 

An  unknown  but  ambitious  youth  stops  at  a  moun- 
tain tavern  and  perishes  with  its  inmates. 

In  the  development  of  a  plot  from  this  germ  into 
the  completed  story,  it  is  often  of  advantage  to  make 
what  may  be  called  a  "  skeleton  "  or  "  working  plot." 
This  skeleton  is  produced  by  thinking  through  the 
story  as  it  has  been  conceived,  and  setting  down  on 
paper  in  logical  order  a  line  for  every  important  idea. 
These  lines  will  roughly  correspond  to  the  para- 
graphs of  the  finished  story,  but  in  a  descriptive  par- 
agraph one  line  will  not  suffice,  while  a  line  may 
represent  a  dozen  paragraphs  of  dialogue;  then,  too, 
paragraphing  is  partly  logical  and  partly  mechani- 
cal, and  varies  considerably  with  the  person. 

Working  Plot  of  "The  Ambitious  Guest." 

1  I. 

The  scene  is  a  tavern  located  at  the  Notch  in  the 
White  Hills. 

The  time,  a  September  night. 

The  place  fs  in  danger  from  landslides  and  falling 
stones. 

The  family — father,  mother,  grandmother,  daughter 
and  children — are  gathered  happily  about  the  hearth. 

1  2,3- 
The  tavern  is  on  a  well-frequented  road. 

59 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

14-7. 
A  young  stranger  enters,  looking  rather  travel-worn, 

but  quickly  brightens  up  at  his  warm  reception.^ 


A  stone  rolls  down  the  mountain  side. 

H  10. 

The  guest,  though  naturally  reticent,  soon  becomes 
familiar  with  the  family. 

f  II. 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  is  high  and 
abstracted  ambition. 

f  12. 

He  is  as  yet  unknown. 

1  I3»  14- 

He  is  sensible  of  the  ludicrous  side  of  his  ambition. 


The  daughter  is  not  ambitious. 

1  16-19. 

The  father's  ambition  is  to  own  a  good  farm,  to  be 
sent  to  General  Court,  and  to  die  peacefully. 

T  20-23. 

The  children  wish  for  the  most  ridiculous  things. 

1  24-27. 

A  wagon  stops  before  the  inn,  but  drives  on  when  the 
landlord  docs  not  immediately  appear. 

60 


THE  PLOT 

1"  28-31. 
The  daughter  is  not  really  content. 

132. 

The  family  picture. 

1  33-37- 

The  grandmother  tells  of  having  prepared  her  grave- 
clothes. 

Fears  if  they  are  not  put  on  smoothly  she  will  not 
rest  easily. 

T  38,39. 

She  wishes  to  see  herself  in  her  coffin. 

1  40,  41- 
They  hear  the  landslide  coming. 

1  42. 

All  rush  from  the  house  and  are  instantly  destroyed. 
The  house  is  unharmed. 
The  bodies  are  never  found. 

1"  43.  44- 

Even  the  death  of  the  ambitious  guest  is  in  doubt. 

You  will  notice  that  this  working  plot  omits  many 
little  details  which  are  too  trivial  to  set  down,  or 
which  probably  would  not  occur  to  one  until  the  ac- 
tual writing;  and  all  the  artistic  touches  that  make 
the  story  literature  are  ruthlessly .  shorn  away,  for 
they  are  part  of  the  treatment,  not  of  the  plot. 

6x 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

This  method  of  permitting  you  to  study  your 
crude  material  in  the  concrete  will  prove  of  value 
to  you.  It  enables  you  to  crystalize  into  ideas  what 
were  mere  phantasms  of  the  brain,  to  arrange  your 
thoughts  in  their  proper  order,  and  to  condense  or 
expand  details  with  a  ready  comprehension  of  the 
effect  of  such  alterations  upon  the  general  propor- 
tions of  the  story.  It  makes  your  purposed  work 
objective  enough  so  that  you  can  consider  it  with  a 
coolness  and  impartiality  which  were  impossible 
while  it  was  still  in  embryo  in  your  brain;  and  it 
often  reveals  the  absurdity  or  impossibility  of  a  plan 
which  had  seemed  to  you  most  happy.  I  believe  that 
the  novice  can  do  no  better  than  to  put  his  every 
story  to  this  practical  test. 

The  use  of  this  skeleton  in  the  further  develop- 
ment of  the  story  depends  upon  the  methods  of  the 
writer,  or  the  matter  in  hand.  Many  short  story 
writers  waste  no  time  in  preparations,  but  at  once 
set  down  the  story  complete;  and  to  my  mind  that  is 
the  ideal  method,  for  it  is  more  apt  to  make  the  tale 
spontaneous  and  technically  correct.  But  if  the 
story  is  not  well  defined  in  your  mind,  or  if  it  re- 
quires some  complexity  of  plot,  like  the  Detective^ 
Story,  this  plan  can  be  followed  to  advantage  in  the 

*a 


THE  PLOT 

completion  of  the  work.  It  may  be  used  as  a  regular 
skeleton,  upon  which  the  narrative  is  built  by  a 
process  of  elaboration  and  expansion  of  the  lines  into 
paragraphs;  or  it  may  be  used  merely  as  a  reference 
to  keep  in  mind  the  logical  order  of  events.  Usually 
you  will  forget  the  scheme  in  the  absorption  of  com- 
position; but  the  fact  of  having  properly  arranged 
your  ideas  will  assist  you  materially,  if  unconsciously, 
in  the  elaboration. 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

Too  often  the  novice  considers  the  title  of  his  story 
a  matter  of  no  import.  He  looks  upon  it  as  a  mere 
handle,  the  result  of  some  happy  afterthought,  af- 
fixed to  the  completed  story  for  convenience  or  ref- 
erence, just  as  numbers  are  placed  on  the  books  in 
a  library.  The  title  is  really  a  fair  test  of  what  it 
introduces,  and  many  a  MS.  has  been  justly  con- 
demned by  its  title  alone;  for  the  editor  knows  that 
a  poor  title  usually  means  a  poor  story.  Think,  too, 
how  often  you  yourself  pass  a  story  by  with  but  af 
casual  glance,  because  its  title  does  not  interest  you : 
experience  has  shown  you  that  you  seldom  enjoy 
reading  a  story  which  bears  an  unattractive  title. 

"  A  book's  name  often  has  an  astonishing  influ- 
ence on  its  first  sale.  A  title  that  piques  curiosity 
or  suggests  excitement  or  emotion  will  draw  a  crowd 
of  readers  the  moment  it  appears,  while  a  book  so- 
berly named  must  force  its  merits  on  the  public.  The 
former  has  all  the  advantage  of  a  pretty  girl  over  a 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

p',ain  one;  it  is  given  an  instantaneous  chance  to 
prove  itself  worth  while.  A  middle  aged,  unalluring 
title  ('In  Search  of  Quiet,'  for  instance)  may 
frighten  people  away  from  what  proves  to  be  a  mine 
of  wit  and  human  interest.  A  book  headed  by  a  man's 
name  unmodified  and  uncommented  upon — such  as 
'  Horace  Chase  ' — is  apt  to  have  a  dreary,  unprepos- 
sessing air,  unless  the  name  is  an  incisive  one  that 
suggests  an  interesting  personality.  Fragments  of 
proverbs  and  poems  are  always  attractive,  as  well 
as  Biblical  phrases  and  colloquial  expressions,  but 
the  magic  title  is  the  one  that  excites  and  baffles 
curiosity.  The  publishers  of  a  recent  '  Primer  of 
Evolution '  received  a  sudden  flood  of  orders  for 
the  book  simply  on  account  of  a  review  which  had 
spoken  of  it  under  the  sobriquet,  '  From  Gas  to 
Genius.'  Many  copies  were  indignantly  returned 
when  the  true  title  was  revealed."  *  "  In  1850  Dr. 
O.  M.  Mitchell,  Director  of  the  Astronomical  Obser- 
vatory in  Cincinnati,  gave  to  the  press  a  volume  en- 
titled 'The  Planetary  and  Stellar  Worlds.'  The 
book  fell  dead  from  the  press.  The  publisher  com- 
plained bitterly  of  this  to  a  friend,  saying,  '  I  have 
not  sold  a  single  copy.'  '  Well,'  was  the  reply,  '  you 


*  "  Literary  Chat."    Munsey's  Magazine.    May,  '98. 
65 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

have  killed  the  book  by  its  title.  Why  not  call  i' 
"  The  Orbs  of  Heaven  "  ?  '  The  hint  was  accepted 
and  acted  upon,  and  6,000  copies  were  sold  in  a 
month."  * 

The  title  migfht  almost  be  called  the  "  text  "  of  the 
story;  it  should  be  logically  deduced  from  the  plot; 
so  a  poor  title  usually  indicates  a  poor  plot  and  a 
poor  story.  This  name  line  should  grow  out  of  the 
phase  of  the  plot,  rather  than  the  basic  theme,  else 
it  will  be  too  abstract  and  general.  It  is  so  closely 
allied  to  the  plot  that  they  should  be  born  synchron- 
ously— or  if  anything  the  title  should  precede  the 
plot;  for  the  story  is  built  up  around  the  central 
thought  that  the  title  expresses,  much  as  Poe  said 
he  wrote  "  The  Raven  "  about  the  word  "  never- 
more." At  least,  the  title  should  be  definitely  fixed 
long  before  the  story  is  completed,  and  often  before 
it  has  taken  definite  form  in  the  writer's  mind.  That 
this  is  the  practice  of  professional  writers  may  be 
proved  by  a  glance  at  the  literary  column  of  any  pe- 
riodical, where  coming  books  are  announced  by  title 
when  scarcely  a  word  of  them  has  been  written.  So 
if  you  have  difficulty  in  finding  an  appropriate  title 


*  "'  Misleading  Titles  of  Books,"  by  William  Mathews.     The 
Saturday  Evening  Post.    Apr.  21,  igoo. 

66 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

for  your  story,  first  examine  your  plot,  and  make 
sure  that  the  cause  does  not  lie  there.  In  case  you 
are  unable  to  decide  among  a  number  of  possible 
titles,  any  one  of  which  might  do,  you  may  find  that 
your  plot  lacks,  the  definiteness  of  impression  re- 
quired by  the  short  story;  but  a  fertile  intellect  may 
suggest  a  number  of  good  titles,  from  which  your 
only  difficulty  is  to  select  the  best. 

A  good  story  may  be  given  a  bad  title  by  its  au- 
thor, and  so  started  toward  failure.  Novices  are 
peculiarly  liable  to  this  fault,  usually  through  allow- 
ing themselves  to  be  too  easily  satisfied.  They  go 
to  infinite  pains  to  make  the  story  itself  fresh  and 
individual,  and  then  cap  it  with  a  commonplace 
phrase  that  is  worse  than  no  title  at  all.  /A  good 
title  is  apt,  specific,  attractive,  new,  and  short/ 

A  title  is  apt  if  it  is  an  outgrowth  of  the  plot — 
a  text,  as  I  have  said.  It  stands  definitely  for  that 
particular  story,  and  gives  a  suggestion  of  what  is 
to  come — but  only  a  suggestion,  lest  it  should  antic- 
ipate the  denouement  and  so  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
the  reader  too  soon.  An  apt  title  excites  and  piques 
the  curiosity  almost  as  much  as  does  the  story  it- 
self. Examples :  Hawthorne's  "  The  Wedding 
Knell;"  Poe's  "'Thou  Art  the  Man!'"  Wilkins' 

67 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

"  The  Revolt  of  Mother."  Each  of  these  titles  con- 
veys an  idea,  though  a  vague  one,  of  the  theme  of  the 
story,  and  so  its  aptness  is  apparent;  but  frequently 
the  relevancy  of  the  title  is  evident  only  after  the 
story  has  been  read,  as  in  the  case  of  James'  "  The 
Real  Thing "  and  "  The  Lesson  of  the  Master." 
Such  a  title  is  almost  ideal.  This  suspension  of  apt- 
ness, carried  to  the  extreme,  produces  such  vague 
and  weak  titles  as: 

"  Happiness  Won." 
"  Almost  Too  Late." 
"  After  All." 
"  Reorganized." 

The  title  must  be  specific  or  it  is  seldom  apt.  It 
is  in  this  particular  that  the  novice  generally  fails. 
He  deduces  his  title  rather  from  the  original  plot, 
or  even  from  the  theme,  than  from  the  particular 
phase  which  he  presents;  Jbut  its  title  should  dis- 
tinguish his  story  from  the  host  of  tales  builded  upon 
the  same  basic  plot,  just  as  the  Christian  name  of  a 
Smith  distinguishes  him  from  the  rest  of  the  great 
family  of  which  he  is  a  member^  Thus  we  have  such 
titles  as  the  following,  which  are  more  appropriate 
for  essays  in  psychology,  moral  philosophy,  or  some 
kindred  subject,  than  for  fiction : 

68 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

"  How  Dreams  Come  True." 
"  Moral  Vision." 
"  Sorrow  and  Joy." 
"  The  Straight  Path." 

More  often  the  unspecific  title  is.  simply  a  vague 
reference  to  the  general  style  of  the  story: 

"  A  Wedding  in  a  Texas  Jail." 

"  A  Frightful  Night  Ride." 

"  A  Unique  Rescue." 

"  A  Lynching  Incident." 

"  Nature's  Freaks." 

"  A  Valuable  Discovery/' 

"  The  Widow." 

"  A  Valued  Relic." 

"  A  Strange  Case." 

"  The  Old  Clock." 

"  The  Office  Boy." 

None  of  these  titles  represents  any  definite  idea,  and 
in  nearly  every  case  it  served  to  introduce  a  story 
which  was  equally  vague,  ordinary,  and  uninterest- 
ing. Several  of  them,  too — notably  the  first  four — 
were  not  stories  at  all,  but  were  simply  bits  of  de- 
scription by  narrative,  as  their  titles  would  suggest. 
In  general  a  phrase,  otherwise  indefinite,  becomes 
specific  when  united  with  the  name  of  a  character, 
as  in  Hawthorne's  "  Howe's  Masquerade "  and 
"  Lady  Eleanor's  Mantle;  "  but  such  titles  are  u§u- 

69 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

ally  ordinary  and  unattractive.  Some  words  fre- 
quently found  in  these  compound  titles  are  so  vague 
in  meaning  or  so  worn  from  use  that  their  total 
avoidance  is  the  only  safe  course.  Such  are 
"  Christmas,"  "  Adventure,"  "  Romance,"  "  Story," 
"  Vision,"  and  "  Dream."  A  "  Dream  "  or  a  "  Vi- 
sion "  is  usually  the  relation  of  some  commonplace 
incident  with  absurd  adornments;  and  an  "  Adven- 
ture "  is  more  often  a  piece  of  description  than  of 
narration.  I  know  that  these  words  may  be  found 
in  combination  in  many  happy  titles,  but  it  is  best  that 
the  novice  let  them  severely  alone.  That  such  titles 
are  really  a  serious  impediment  to  the  success  of 
their  stories  is  shown  by  the  action  of  the  Chicago 
Record.  For  some  years  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
Record  to  offer  substantial  cash  prizes  for  the  best 
Christmas  stories  written  by  school  children;  and 
prominent  among  the  rules  governing  the  competi- 
tion was  the  announcement  that  stories  bearing  such 
titles  as  "  Johnnie's  Christmas,"  "  Nellie's  Christ- 
mas," "  Mary's  Christmas,"  would  not  even  be  read. 
The  following  titles  show  how  fond  is  the  novice  of 
these  objectionable  words  in  their  baldest  combina- 
tions : 

"  Sarah's  Christmas  Present." 

70 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

"Adventures  with  a  Bear." 

"  Nettie's  Romance." 

"  Lee's  Romance." 

"  A  Woman's  Love  Story." 

"  The  Captain's  Story." 

"  A  True  Story." 

"  The  Story  of  a  Vision." 

"  The  Dream  at  Sea." 

"  Viola's  Dream." 

"  Mabel's  Dream." 

"Eleanor's  Dream." 

The  title  should  be  attractive  because  it  will  be  the 
test  of  the  story,  and  it  must  be  sufficiently  inter- 
esting to  arouse  at  a  glance  the  curiosity  of  the 
reader,  and  induce  in  him  a  desire  to  peruse  the  nar- 
rative that  it  offers.  Commonplaceness  is  the  chief 
cause  of  the  unattractive  title,  and  that  fault  is 
usually  traceable  to  the  plot  itself.  It  may,  how- 
ever, be  due  to  a  conventional  expression  of  the  dom- 
inant idea  of  the  story,  as  in  the  list  just  given;  and 
also  in  the  following: 

"  How  Amy  Won  the  Prize." 
"  Fred  Norton,  the  Artist." 

Or  it  may  be  unattractive  through  comprising  only 
the  name  of  the  chief  character: 

"  Lucy  Bonneville." 
"  Lester  Rice." 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

The  use  of  a  name  for  a  title  is  a  matter  which  it 
is  difficult  to  settle.  If  the  story  is  dominated  by 
one  character,  and  particularly  if  it  is  a  genuine 
Character  Study,  the  writer  naturally  feels  that  he 
cannot  do  better  than  to  name  it  after  the  character 
it  depicts;  and  he  has  good  authority  for  so  doing 
in  the  example  of  Poe  ("Berenice,"  "  Elenora," 
"Morella").  Hawthorne  ("Sylph  Etherege," 
"Ethan  Brand,"  "Wakefield"),  Irving  ("Wol- 
fert  Webber,"  "Rip  Van  Winkle"),  James  ("Sir 
Dominic  Ferrand,"  "  Nona  Vincent,"  "  Greville 
Fane"),  Stevenson  ("Olalla,"  "  Thrawn  Janet," 
"Markheim"),  Wilkins  ("Louisa"),  Davis 
("  Gallegher,"  "  Cinderella  "),  Kipling  ("  Lispeth," 
"  Namgay  Doola"),  etc.,  etc.  A  good  rule  to  ob- 
serve would  be  this :  /tf  the  name  of  the  chief  per- 
sonage gives  a  hint  of  character,  or  if  it  is  sufficiently 
unusual  to  attract  attention,  it  may  be  used  as  a 
title;  but  in  general  it  will  be  stronger  if  used  in 
combination.  / 

/In  the  endeavor  to  make  his  title  distinctive  and 
attractive  the  novice  is  liable  to  fall  into  the  error  of 
making  it  cheap  and  sensational^  A  title  which  of- 
fends against  good  taste  must  not  be  used,  no  mat- 
ter how  desirable  it  may  appear  in  the  matter  of  at- 

72 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

tractiveness.  The  newspaper  caption  writer  who 
headed  an  account  of  a  hanging  "  Jerked  to  Jesus!  " 
attained  the  acme  of  attractiveness,  but  he  also  com- 
mitted an  unpardonable  sin  against  good  taste.  The 
short  story  writer  seldom  descends  to  such  depths  of 
sensationalism :  his  chief  offense  consists  in  the  use 
of  double  titles,  connected  by  the  word  "or."  Often 
either  title  alone  would  be  passable,  if  not  really 
good;  but  their  united  form  must  be  placed  in  the 
category  of  bad  titles.  Such  titles  are  rated  as 
bad  chiefly  through  the  effects  of  association.  It 
used  to  be  common  for  a  story  to  bear  a  double  title ; 
but  to-day  the  custom  has  been  relegated  to  ,the 
cheap,  sensational  tale  of  the  "  penny  dreadful " 
order^and  the  conjunctive  title  is  a  recognized  mark 
of  "  yellow  "  literature.  /  This  fault  in  a  title  can 
usually  be  corrected  by  the  use  of  either  of  the  titles 
alone,  as  may  be  seen  from  a  study  of  the  follow- 
ing: 

(1)  "The  Story  of  Dora;  or,   Innocence  Trium- 
phant." 

(2)  "  Jessie  Redmond ;  or,  The  Spider  and  the  Fly." 

(3)  "  Outwitted ;  or,  The  Holdup  of  No.  4." 

(4)  "  The  Battle  of  the  Black  Cats ;  or,  A  Tragedy 
Played  with  Twenty  Thousand  Actors  and  Only  One 
Spectator." 

73 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

(5)  "  Fate;  or,  Legend  of  '  Say  Au  Revoir,  but  not 
Goodbye.' " 

(6)  "  The  Romance  of  a  Lost  Mine;  or,  The  Curse 
of  the  Navajos." 

(7)  "A  Little  Bunch  of  Rosebuds ;  or,  Two  Normal 
Graduates." 

(8)  "Her   Silk   Quilt;   or,   On   the  Crest  of  the 
Wave." 

( i )  Neither  part  is  particularly  happy.  "  The 
Story  of  Dora  "  is  too  general,  and  conveys  an  idea 
of  largeness  and  time  that  is  better  suited  to  the 
novel  than  to  the  short  story;  "  Innocence  Trium- 
phant"  is  cheap,  sensational  and  trite.  (2)  "Jes- 
sie Redmond  "  is  too  commonplace  a  name  to  be  a 
good  head  line;  "  The  Spider  and  the  Fly  "  was  worn 
out  years  ago.  (3)  Either  title  alone  is  good; 
"  The  Holdup  of  No.  4  "  is  preferable  because  of  its 
definiteness.  (4)  "  The  Battle  of  the  Black  Cats  " 
alone  would  pass,  in  spite  of  its  hint  of  sensational- 
ism; but  the  second  part  is  of  course  ludicrously 
impossible.  (5)  "Fate"  is  too  indefinite;  the 
second  title  is  cheap  and  old.  (6)  Either  would 
do,  though  the  first  is  somewhat  vague,  and  "  Curse  " 
savors  of  sensationalism.  (7)  Either  would  do, 
though  the  first  sounds  rather  silly.  (8)  The  first 
is  good;  the  second  is  vague  and  rather  old. 

74 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

That  a  title  should  be  new  is  so  obvious  that  of- 
fenses against  this  rule  are  usually  unconscious;  yet 
in  some  cases  stories  have  been  capped  with  stolen 
headings,  where  the  theft  was  so  apparently  inten- 
tional that  it  seemed  as  if  the  writer  wished  to  fail. 
Lapses  in  this  regard  are  usually  due  to  the  writer's 
ignorance  of  the  value  of  a  title;  or  to  the  too  ready 
use  of  the  abstract  theme,  as  mentioned  before.  Of 
such  titles  are  "  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  "  Love's 
Labor  Lost,"  and  "  The  Irony  of  Fate,"  all  of  which 
are  great  favorites  with  the  beginner.  Like  char- 
ity, they  will  cover  a  multitude  of  sins,  but  they  con- 
stitute so  great  a  literary  sin  in  themselves  that 
they  should  be  rigorously  eschewed.  To  this  class 
belongs  also  such  a  title  as  "  Cuba  Libre !  "  which  is 
so  very  old,  and  which  during  the  last  few  years  has 
been  so  twisted  and  mishandled  in  every  conceiva- 
ble way  that  its  mere  use  is  an  irritation.  Such  a 
title  will  frequently  be  apt,  specific,  attractive,  and, 
in  application,  new;  but  it  will  so  exasperate  the 
reader  that  its  use  will  be  perilous. 

For  self-evident  reasons  the  title  should  be  short 
Aptness  and  specificness  do  not  require  an  epitome 
of  the  story;  and  a  title  like  "  Why  Tom  Changed 
His  Opinion  of  Me,"  or  "  What  the  Rabbit  Drive  Did 

75 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

for  Me  "  is  prosy  as  well  as  long.  It  used  to  be  the 
custom  to  make  the  title  of  a  writing  a  regular  synop- 
sis of  the  matter  contained  therein;  but  modern 
readers  object  to  being  told  in  advance  exactly  what 
is  to  happen.  No  ruling  concerning  the  proper 
length  of  a  short  story  title  is  possible;  but  generally 
speaking,  the  shorter  the  title  the  better  it  is.  Com- 
pound titles  connected  by  "  or,"  like  those  previously 
mentioned,,  are  as  offensive  in  their  length  as  in  their 
sensationalism. 

To  illustrate  further  these  several  points  I  intro- 
duce here  a  few  good  titles  used  by  successful  short 
story  writers.  They  are  roughly  divided  into  three 
classes  according  to  their  derivation.  The  title  may 
be  the  text  of  the  story : 

Edgeworth :  "  Murad  the  Unlucky." 

Hawthorne:  "The  Wedding  Knell;"  "The  Pro- 
phetic Pictures." 

James:  "The  Real  Thing;"  "The  Lesson  of  the 
Master." 

Poe:  "The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death;"  "'Thou 
Art  the  Man ! ' " 

Stockton:  "The  Transferred  Ghost." 

Wilkins:  "The  Revolt  of  Mother;"  "Two  Old 
Lovers." 

The  title  may  represent  the  principal  character  by 
name  or  by  some  apt  appellation : 

76 


TITLES  GOOD  AND  BAD 

Davis :  "  Gallagher." 

Hawthorne:  "The  Ambitious  Guest;"  "Feather- 
top." 

Irving:  "The  Spectre  Bridegroom;"  "Rip  Van 
Winkle." 

Poe:  "Morella;"  "  Ligeia." 

Stevenson :  "  Markheim." 

Wilkins:  "A  Modern  Dragon;"  "A  Kitchen 
Colonel." 

The  title  may  mention  the  principal  object: 

Adee:  "  The  Life  Magnet." 
Burnett :  "  The  Spider's  Eye." 
Hawthorne:  "  The  Great  Stone  Face;  "  "  The  Great 
Carbuncle." 

James :  "  The  Aspern  Papers." 
Kipling :  "  The  Phantom  Rickshaw." 
Poe:  "  The  Black  Cat;  "  "  The  Gold  Bug." 
Stevenson:  "The  Bottle  Imp." 


77 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

ALL  fiction  is  founded  upon  fact,  for  the  boldest 
imagination  must  have  some  definite  point  from 
which  to  take  its  flight;  but  the  ungarnished  truth 
is  seldom  literature  in  itself,  though  it  may  offer 
excellent  material  for  literary  embellishment.  The 
amateur,  content  with  knowing  that  he  is  recounting 
what  did  actually  happen,  falls  into  the  most  inar- 
tistic ways,  because  he  does  not  understand  that 
facts  are  properly  only  crude  material  for  the  fic- 
tionist. 

The  one  place  where  the  average  short  story  writer 
should  not  seek  his  material  is  the  world  of  litera- 
ture. Almost  from  the  time  when  men  first  began 
to  dabble  in  letters  they  have  drawn  on  their  pred- 
ecessors for  their  subject  matter;  but  this  practice 
has  produced  a  deal  of  unconscious  plagiarism,  which 
is  responsible  for  most  of  the  conventional  and  stere- 
otyped stories  with  which  we  are  afflicted  to-day. 
Of  any  one  hundred  average  stories  submitted  for 

78 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

sale,  probably  seventy-five  are  damned  by  their  hope- 
lessly hackneyed  conception  and  treatment ;  and  they 
suffer  because  the  writer,  reading  some  attractive 
story  built  upon  a  similar  plot,  has  attempted  to  go 
and  do  likewise,  and  has  unconsciously  used  all  the 
conventional  parts  while  omitting  the  essential  indi- 
viduality. 

(it  is  safe  for  the  novice  to  go  only  to  the  world  for 
literary  material.  The  matter  so  obtained  will  be 
intrinsically  the  same  as  that  gained  from  the  writ- 
ings of  others,  but  the  fact  that  you  get  your  infor- 
mation through  your  own  senses  will  considerably 
obviate  the  danger  of  adopting  the  conventional  view 
in  the  matter.  v  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  should 
deliberately  set  out  to  search  for  new  types  and  inci- 
dents as  Dickens  did,  though  I  would  certainly  com- 
mend such  a  course;  I  mean  rather  that  you  should 
be  content  to  write  of  what  you  personally  and  inti- 
mately know,  and  not  attempt  to  treat  of  matters  of 
which  you  have  only  a  vague  superficial  knowledge, 
or  of  which  you  are  totally  ignorant.  Excellent 
stories  have  been  written  by  men  who  were  person- 
ally unacquainted  with  the  matters  with  which  they 
dealt,  but  they  were  in  every  case  masters  of  their  art, 
who  knew  how  to  ffain  and  use  second-hand  informa- 

79 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

tion  and  how  to  supplement  insufficient  data  with 
literary  skill. 

Too  many  novices  have  the  mistaken  idea  that 
only  those  things  which  are  dim  and  distant  are  fil 
for  artistic  treatment.  They  have  not  cultivated 
their  powers  of  perception,  and  have  failed  to  grasp 
the  truth  that  human  nature  is  in  most  respects  the 
same  the  world  over,  and  that  persons  and  places, 
apparently  the  most  ordinary,  have  stories  to  tell. 
Before  Mary  E.  Wilkins  began  to  write  her  New 
England  tales  few  thought  to  look  to  those  bleak 
hills  and  commonplace  people  for  literary  material; 
and  doubtless  many  New  Englanders,  feeling  the  im- 
pulse to  write,  viewed  with  scorn  their  unpoetic  sur- 
roundings and  longed  for  the  glamour  of  some  half- 
guessed  clime;  Miss  Wilkins,  appreciating  her  en- 
vironment, won  fame  and  fortune  through  her  truth- 
ful depictions  of  those  things  which  others,  equally 
able  to  write  but  less  able  to  see,  had  despised. 

It  is  a  common  trick  of  aspiring  writers  to  locate 
their  stories  in  England,  to  speak  proudly  but  un- 
certainly of  grand  estates,  noble  castles,  and  haughty 
lords  and  ladies,  and  to  make  mistakes  which  would 
be  ridiculous  were  they  not  so  inexcusable.  There  is 
a  certain  half-feudal  glamour  about  England  yet 

80 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

which  appeals  strongly  to  the  callow  author :  it  lends 
that  rosy  haze  of  romance  and  unreality  which  is 
popularly  associated  with  fiction;  but  it  was  long 
ago  done  to  death  by  mediocre  writers  and  laughed 
out  of  good  literary  society,  and  to-day  America  will 
not  suffer  any  such  hackneyed  fol-de-rol. 

Similarly  the  amateur  will  locate  his  story  in  the 
"  best "  society  of  some  American  metropolis,  when 
he  has  never  been  out  of  his  native  village,  and 
knows  nothing  of  the  class  with  which  he  deals  ex- 
cept through  the  society  column  of  his  newspaper. 
Therefore  he  will  of  course  "  fall  flat  when  he  at- 
tempts to  delineate  manners.  It  is  too  evident  that 
he  has  not  had  the  entree  to  the  circle  he  would  de- 
scribe: his  gentlemen  commit  too  many  blunders, 
his  ladies  are  from  the  wrong  side  of  the  town,  the 
love-passages  are  silly  and  vulgar,  the  whole  result 
is  stupid  and  offensive — to  those  who  know.  The 
thing  hopelessly  lacks  tone;  it  might  pass  below 
stairs,  but  not  in  the  drawing-room."  *  It 
is  not  only  those  of  wealth  and  leisure  who  are 
eligible  for  literary  purposes;  indeed,  their  lives,  ap- 
parently so  gay  and  exciting,  are  often  a  dull  and 


*  "  Bad  Story-Telling,"  by  Frederick  M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs. 
Oct.,  '07. 

81 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

regular  series  of  attempts  to  kill  the  dawdling  time. 
If  the  young  writer  would  look  into  the  lives  of  his 
own  simple  neighbors  he  would  find  much  better  mat- 
ter for  his  intended  stories. } 

Again,  the  novice,  in  his  search  for  something  dif- 
ferent, will  place  his  tale  in  the  dim  and  distant  past, 
when  all  men  were  brave  and  all  women  lovely;  and 
in  so  doing  will  expose  himself  to  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt for  his  evident  ignorance  of  the  matters  of 
which  he  pretends  to  treat.  It  is  very  probable 
that  any  age  seems  dull  and  commonplace  to  those 
who  live  in  it,  for  "  familiarity  breeds  contempt " 
for  almost  anything;  but  though  we  of  to-day  have 
no  valiant  knights,  armed  cap-a-pie,  riding  forth  to 
the  iousts  to  do  battle  for  their  ladies  fair,  we  have 
men  just  as  brave  and  deeds  fully  as  valorous  and  far 
more  sensible;  and  the  world  is,  and  always  will  be, 
full  of  noble  and  romantic  and  marvelous  things .1 

If,  however,  you  feel  that  you  must  write  of  times 
and  scenes  and  peoples  which  are  either  past  or  for- 
eign, it  is  your  first  duty  to  inform  yourself  to  the 
best  of  your  ability  concerning  them.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  any  writer  can  successfully  locate  his  story 
in  a  foreign  country  unless  he  has  personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  scenes  and  persons  that  he  describes,  or 

8a 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

unless  he  is  thoroughly  versed  in  the  language  and 
literature  of  the  country — and  in  the  latter  case  he 
would  probably  be  too  pedantic  to  write  readable 
stories.  At  first  thought  it  does  not  seem  so  diffi- 
cult to  handle  English  subjects,  for  there  we  have 
the  advantage  of  a  common  language  and,  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  of  common  racial  traits;  but  even 
that  common  language,  as  spoken  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  has  an  every-day  vocabulary  differ- 
ing from  ours,  and  the  English  government  and  so- 
cial system  present  difficulties  almost  insurmounta- 
ble to  one  who  cannot  study  them  face  to  face.  In 
dealing  with  themes  of  the  past  there  is  more  oppor- 
tunity. There  we  are  all  on  the  common  ground  of 
an  absolute  dependence  on  such  books  as  may  pre- 
serve for  us  pictures  of  those  times,  and  complete 
information — complete,  at  least,  in  the  sense  that  no 
one  knows  more — can  be  had  at  the  price  of  a  certain 
number  of  hours  of  painstaking  study,  •<  If,  then,  you 
desire  to  write  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  see  to  it 
that  you  first  thoroughly  acquaint  yourself  with  the 
history  of  those  times.,:  There  are  few  towns  too 
small  to  possess  a  library,  and  few  libraries  too  small 
to  contain  such  historical  books  as  you  may  need. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

In  these  days  when  all  things  come  to  Mohamet, 
the  writer  may  gain  a  valuable  though  impersonal 
insight  into  the  world  at  large  through  the  medium 
of  the  public  press.  The  newspapers  of  to-day  are 
full  of  incipient  plots,  needing  only  the  skillful  pen 
to  make  them  literature.  Reporters  go  everywhere 
and  see  everything,  and  they  place  the  result  of  their 
multifarious  labors  in  your  hands  every  morning 
They  recount  actual  happenings  accurately  enough 
for  literary  purposes,  they  strain  for  the  unusual  side 
of  things,  and  their  purpose  is  too  different  from 
yours  to  make  you  liable  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism 
if  you  rework  their  material.  The  receptive  perusal 
of  any  newspaper  ought  to  furnish  the  reader  with 
a  fresh  stock  of  literary  material.  Such  matter  is 
particularly  valuable  to  the  short  story  writer  be- 
cause of  the  present  and  ever  increasing  demand 
for  stories  of  the  day,  plots,  characters,  situations, 
and  local  color  for  which  may  be  culled  from  any 
newspaper. 

But  short  story  writing  is  an  art,  and  all  facts 
may  not  be  capable  of  literary  treatment.  "  Even 
actual  occurrences  may  be  improper  subjects  for 
fiction.  Nature  can  take  liberties  with  facts  that 
art  dare  not — a  truth  that  has  passed  into  a  proverb. 

84 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

....  Art  may  fill  us  with  anger,  fear,  terror,  awe, 
but  the  moment  it  condescends  to  excite  disgust,  it 
passes  out  of  the  realm  of  art"*  "There  seems 
no  reason  why  the  artist  should  not  choose  any  sub- 
ject, if  the  production  itself  contributes  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  world,  making  a  picture  of  life,  or  of 
a  phase  of  life,  in  compliance  with  the  demands  of 
art,  beauty,  and  truth.  Taste  is  the  arbiter  of  the 
subject,  for  taste  is  always  moral,  always  on  the  side 
of  the  angels.  There  are  certain  things  which  are 
only  subjects  for  technical  reform,  for  the  sanitary 
inspector,  and  for  the  physician — not  for  the  novel- 
ist." t  "  The  carnage  of  a  battle-field,  the  wrecked 
cafe  or  theatre  after  dynamite  has  done  its  work, 

had  best  be  handled  sparingly A  good  many 

things  that  happen  on  this  planet  are  not  good  sub- 
jects for  art:  the  pathetic  (within  limits)  is  always 
in  order,  but  not  the  shocking.  Moral  are  worse 
than  physical  horrors."  t  "  Even  genius  may  waste 
itself  on  an  unmanageable  theme;  it  cannot  make 


*  "  Rudimentary  Suggestions  for  Beginners  in  Story  Writ- 
ing," by  E.  F.  Andrews.  Cosmopolitan.  Feb.,  '97. 

f  "  The  Art  of  Fiction."  A  lecture  by  Gilbert  Parker.  The 
Critic.  Dec.,  '98. 

J  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
erick M.  Bird.  Lippincott's.  Nov.,  '94. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

the  cleaning  of  fish  interesting,  nor  the  slums  of 
New  York  or  Paris  attractive."  * 

It  is  rare  indeed  that  a  fact  can  be  used  without 
embellishment.  Mere  facts  are  frequently  most  un- 
literary,  though  they  may  be  susceptible  of  a  high 
literary  polish.  The  sub-title  "  A  True  Story," 
which  young  writers  think  so  valuable  a  part  of  the 
tale,  is  too  often  the  trademark  of  an  unreadable 
mess  of  conventional  people,  ordinary  incidents  and 
commonplace  conversation.  We  find  few  genuinely 
true  stories,  and  when  we  do  find  them  we  seldom 
care  to  read  them  through.  I  have  read  many 
stories  Which  I  knew  to  be  literally  true,  because 
they  contained  so  much  of  the  hackneyed  and  the 
irrelevant.  Life  itself  is  a  very  conventional  affair; 
it  abounds  with  dull  events  and  stupid  people;  and 
for  that  reason  alone  fiction  would  demand  some- 
thing out  of  the  common.  Commonplace  persons 
and  commonplace  things  do  appear  in  literature,  but 
they  must  have  something  more  than  their  common- 
placeness  to  recommend  them./* 

"  The  novice  in  story  telling  ....  has  heard 
that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and  supposes  that 


*  "  Bad  Story-Telling,"  by  Frederick  M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs. 
Oct.,  'Qf. 

86 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

the  more  truth  he  can  get  into  his  tale  the  stronger 

and  more  effective  it  will  be Truth,  i.  e., 

reality,  is  very  seldom  strange;  it  is  usually  tame  and 
flat  and  commonplace ;  and  when  it  is  strange  it  is 
apt  to  be  grotesque  and  repulsive.  C,Most  of  the  ex- 
periences of  daily  life  afford  material  only  for  a 
chronicle  of  dulness;  and  most  of  the  'strange*  or 
unusual  happenings  had  better  be  left  to  the  news- 
paper and  the  records  of  the  police  courts.  This 
statement  may  be  strengthened.  Does  not  the  able 
reporter  select  and  decorate  his  facts,  suppressing 
some,  emphasizing  others,  arranging  his  '  story ' 
with  reference  to  picturesqueness  and  effect  ? 

"  In  other  words,  verisimilitude,  not  verity,  is 
wanted  in  fiction.  The  observer  notes  his  facts,  and 
then  the  artist  seizes  on  the  ideas  behind  them,  the 
types  they  represent,  the  spiritual  substances  they 
embody.  The  result,  when  all  goes  well,  is  as  life- 
like as  life  itself,  though  it  is  not  a  copy  of  anything 

(in  detail)  that  really  lives The  budding 

writer  of  fictitious  tales  must  be  familiar  with  facts, 
at  least  in  his  own  range:  he  must  know  life  and 
nature,  or  his  work  is  naught.  But  when  he  has 
this  knowledge,  he  must  put  the  facts  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  mind Real  incidents,  dragged 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

against  their  will  into  an  (alleged)  imaginary  nar- 
rative, are  apt  by  no  means  to  improve  it,  but  to 
sound  as  '  flat  and  untunable '  as  our  own  praises 
from  our  own  mouths."  * 

"  There  must  be  no  misconception  about  great 
fiction  being  a  transcript  of  life.  Mere  transcrip- 
tion is  not  the  work  of  an  artist,  else  we  should  have 
no  need  of  painters,  for  photographers  would  do; 
no  poems,  for  academical  essays  would  do;  no  great 
works  of  fiction,  for  we  have  our  usual  sources  of 
information — if  information  is  all  we  want — the 
Divorce  Court,  the  Police  Court,  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, the  Young  Ladies'  Seminary,  the  Marriage 
Register,  and  the  House  of  Parliament — those  happy 
hunting-grounds  of  sensation-mongers  and  purvey- 
ors of  melodrama.  All  these  things  certainly  con- 
tain the  facts  of  life  which  one  must  know  for  the 
constructive  work  of  the  imagination,  for  they  arc 
the  rough  material,  the  background  of  knowledge 
from  which  the  illusion  of  real  life  must  proceed. 
But  they  are  not  life,  though  they  are  the  transcrip- 
tion of  life.  The  human  significance  of  facts  is  all 
that  concerns  one.  The  inwardness  of  facts  makes 


""Fact  in  Fiction,"  by  Frederick  M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs. 
July,  '95. 

88 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

fiction;  the  history  of  life,  its  emotions,  its  passions, 
its  sins,  reflections,  values.  These  you  cannot  pho- 
tograph nor  transcribe.  x  Selection  and  rejection  are 
two  profound  essentials  of  every  art,  even  of  the  art 
of  fiction,  though  it  be  so  jauntily  practised  by  the 
amateur."  *} 

And  even  if  the  facts  which  you  purpose  to  use  are 
of  undoubted  value  for  artistic  treatment,  there  may 
be  other  reasons  which  make  their  use  questionable. 
In  the  first  place,  people  do  not  really  prefer  truth 
to  fiction.  They  require  plausibility,  but  they  are 
all  too  familiar  with  life  themselves,  and  in  the 
idle  hours  in  which  they  turn  to  fiction  they  desire 
to  be  lifted  out  of  reality  into  the  higher  realm  of 
fancy.  Nor  will  they,  even  in  the  form  of  fiction, 
tolerate  what  seems  like  too  gross  an  invasion  of  the 
privacy  of  the  home,  or  the  sanctity  of  the  soul  of 
a  man.  They  must  always  feel  vaguely  that  the 
suffering  characters  are  really  only  puppets  created 
for  their  amusement,  or  their  pity  for  the  characters 
will  develop  into  anger  and  disgust  for  the  author. 

In  using  facts,  then,  the  first  thing  to  learn  is 
what  to  suppress  and  what  to  elaborate,  and  that 


*  "  The  Art  of  Fiction."    A  lecture  by  Gilbert  Parker.    The 
Critic.    Dec.,  '98. 

89 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

involves  that  most  necessary  possession  of  the  story 
teller,  a  sense  of  proportion.  Because  a  conversa- 
tion about  the  weather  occupies  two  dull  people  for 
ten  minutes  is  no  reason  that  it  should  receive  an 
equal  number  of  pages;  and  because  an  important 
event  is  almost  instantaneous  is  no  excuse  for  pass- 
ing it  with  a  single  line.  Again,  the  fact  that  you 
are  relating  what  actually  occurred  does  not  relieve 
you  of  the  necessity  of  making  it  plausible.  Paint- 
ers acknowledge  that  there  are  color  combinations 
in  nature  which  they  dare  not  reproduce,  lest  they 
be  dubbed  unnatural;  and  similarly  things  exist 
which  the  writer  may  present  only  after  he  has  most 
carefully  prepared  the  way  for  their  credence.  The 
truth  is  that  we  have  declared  that  even  nature  shall 
conform  to  certain  conventions,  and  we  reject  as  im- 
possible any  deviations  from  our  preconceived  ideas. 
The  facts  upon  which  Hawthorne  built  "  The 
Ambitious  Guest  "  are  these : — The  White  Hills  of 
which  he  speaks  (Ti)  are  the  famous  White  Moun- 
tains of  New  Hampshire;  the  Notch  (ITi)  is  the  real 
name  of  a  real  mountain  pass,  which  is  just  as  he  de- 
scribes it;  the  Flume  (^22)  is  a  waterfall  not  far 
from  the  Notch ;  the  valley  of  the  Saco  (^[  i )  is  really 
where  he  places  it.  The  references  to  Portland 

90 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

(13),  Bartlett  (Is),  Burlington  (17),  Bethlehem 
and  Littleton  (*|[i8)  are  all  references  to  real  places 
in  the  vicinity.  At  the  point  where  Hawthorne  lo- 
cates his  story  there  actually  was  a  mountain  tavern 
called  the  Willey  House,  and  a  modern  inn  stands  on 
the  spot  to-day.  Concerning  the  catastrophe  which 
he  describes  I  found  the  following  account: 

"  Some  time  in  June — before  the  great  '  slide '  in 
August,  1826 — there  came  a  great  storm,  and  the  old 
veteran,  Abel  Crawford,  coming  down  the  Notch, 
noticed  the  trees  slipping  down,  standing  upright,  and, 
as  he  was  passing  Mr.  Willey's  he  called  and  informed 
him  of  the  wonderful  fact.  Immediately,  in  a  less  ex- 
posed place,  Mr.  Willey  prepared  a  shelter  to  which  to 
flee  in  case  of  immediate  danger;  and  in  the  night  of 
August  28th,  that  year,  he  was,  with  his  family,  awa- 
kened by  the  thundering  crash  of  the  coming  avalanche. 
Attempting  to  escape,  that  family,  nine  in  number, 
rushed  from  the  house  and  were  overtaken  and  buried 
alive  under  a  vast  pile  of  rocks,  earth,  trees  and  water. 
By  a  remarkable  circumstance  the  house  remained  un- 
injured, as  the  slide  divided  about  four  rods  back  of  the 
house  (against  a  high  flat  rock),  and  came  down  on 
either  side  with  overwhelming  power."* 

The  book  goes  on  to  state  further  that  the  family 


*  "  Historical  Relics  of  the  White  Mountains,"  by  John  H. 
Spaulding.  (Boston,  1855.)  "Destruction  of  the  Willey 
Family,"  page  58. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

consisted  of  the  father  and  mother,  five  children — the 
eldest  a  girl  of  thirteen — and  two  hired  men.  The 
bodies  of  the  parents,  the  oldest  and  youngest 
children,  and  the  two  hired  men  were  found. 

It  is  probable  that  Hawthorne  derived  his  infor- 
mation from  the  newspapers,  though  he  may  have 
heard  the  story  by  word  of  mouth,  for  there  is  little 
doubt  that  he  actually  visited  the  spot  where  the  cat- 
astrophe occurred.  But  the  bald  facts  of  the  case, 
however  gained,  are  essentially  as  we  have  them 
here,  and  that  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose. 

In  writing  his  story  Hawthorne  took  several  liber- 
ties with  the  facts.  He  made  no  change  in  the  loca- 
tion because  even  he  could  not  improve  upon  the 
scene  for  such  a  story.  He  changed  the  month  from 
August  to  September  (fi)  to  make  plausible,  per- 
haps,  the  rain  necessary  for  such  a  slide,  and  to  make 
seasonable  the  bitter  wind  which  he  introduces.  He 
omitted  all  names  to  add  to  the  air  of  unsolved 
mystery  that  haunts  the  story.  He  introduced  the 
guest  (IF 4)  and  the  grandmother  (Ti),  increased 
the  age  of  the  daughter  (IFi),  retained  the  parents 
and  younger  children  (Ti)  and  omitted  the  hired 
men  to  suit  the  requirements  of  his  story.  He 
omitted  the  warning  but  retained  the  establishment 

92 


THE  USE  OF  FACTS 

of  a  place  of  refuge  (T9)  to  heighten  the  climax. 
He  used  the  flight  from  the  house  (^[42)  because 
it  just  suited  his  purpose.  He  retained  the  strange 
preservation  of  the  house  (IF 42)  to  increase  the  air 
of  mystery,  and  to  intensify  the  tragedy  by  making 
it  appear  in  a  manner  unnecessary.  He  suppressed 
the  finding  of  any  of  the  bodies  (T42)  to  aid  the 
plausibility  of  his  narrative,  and  to  increase  the  pa- 
thos of  the  guest's  death. 

Compare  carefully  the  account  given  by  Spauld- 
ing  and  the  story  of  Hawthorne,  for  you  have  here 
an  excellent  illustration  of  the  difference  between 
the  commonplace  recital  of  facts  and  their  transfor- 
mation into  a  work  of  art.  Spaulding's  relation  is  a 
true  story,  but  Hawthorne's  is  literature. 


93 


VI 

THE  CHARACTERS 

IT  is  the  tritest  sort  of  a  truism  to  say  that  the 
characters  in  a  story  are  important,  for  stories  are 
stories  only  in  so  far  as  they  reflect  life,  and  life  is 
impossible  without  human  actors.  It  is  the  hopes 
and  fears,  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the  sins  and  moral 
victories  of  men  that  interest  us.  We  men  are  a  con- 
ceited lot,  and  find  nothing  of  interest  except  as  it  re- 
lates to  us.  Thus  in  the  most  ingenious  stories, 
where  some  marvelous  invention  or  discovery  is  in- 
troduced, the  interest  centers,  not  in  the  wondrous 
things  themselves,  but  in  their  influence  on  the  peo- 
ple of  the  story ;  and  in  the  few  stories  where  a  beast 
or  a  thing  plays  the  hero,  it  is  always  given  human 
attributes. 

Fictitious  characters,  like  the  plots  that  they  de- 
velop, are  based  primarily  on  fact,  and  they  further 
resemble  the  plots  in  being  different  phases  of  a  pri- 
mal idea,  rather  than  intrinsically  diverse.  We  find 
many  characters  in  fiction — Miss  Wilkins'  stories 

94 


THE  CHARACTERS 

are  full  of  them — which  are  evidently  meant  to  be 
realistic,  and  which  impress  us  as  word  photographs 
of  existing  persons;  yet  it  is  improbable  that  they  are 
exact  reproductions.  A  real  person  ordinarily  has  too 
much  of  the  commonplace  and  conventional  about 
him  to  serve  in  fiction,  where — despite  the  apparent 
paradox— a  character  must  be  exaggerated  to  appear 
natural.  A  person  in  fiction  is  at  the  best  but  a  blur 
of  hieroglyphics  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  can  be  com- 
prehended only  through  the  mentality  of  the  author; 
therefore  his  description,  his  actions,  his  words,  his 
very  thoughts  must  be  made  so  unnaturally  striking 
that  through  the  sense  of  sight  alone  they  will  stimu- 
late the  imagination  and  produce  the  effect  which 
actual  contact  with  the  real  person  would  induce. 
-  The  character  which  seems  most  real  is  usually  a 
composite  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of 
several  real  persons.^  To  this  source  of  fictitious 
characters  is  due  the  fact  that  a  literary  puppet  is 
often  thought  to  be  the  reproduction  of  several  very 
different  real  persons;  for  the  reader,  recognizing  a 
particular  trait  which  is  characteristic  of  some  one  of 
his  acquaintance,  thinks  that  he  recognizes  the 
character. 

"  While  the  popular  idea  that  every  creature  of 
95 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

the  novelist's  imagination  has  a  definite  original 
somewhere  among  his  acquaintances  is,  of  course, 
egregriously  false,  it  has  yet  this  much  of  truth,  that 
they  are,  to  a  large  extent,  suggestions  from  life. 
Not  one  person,  but  half  a  dozen,  often  sit  as  models 
for  the  same  picture,  while  the  details  are  filled  out 
by  the  writer's  imagination.  There  are  few  people 
in  real  life  sufficiently  interesting  or  uncommonplace 
to  suit  the  novelist's  purpose,  but  he  must  idealize  or 
intensify  them  before  they  are  fit  subjects  for  art. 
Dickens  intensified  to  the  verge  of  the  impossible, 
yet  we  never  feel  that  Dick  Swiveller  and  Sam 
Weller  and  Mr.  Micawber,  and  the  rest  of  them,  are 
unnatural;  they  are  only,  if  I  may  coin  the  word, 
'  hypernatural.'  .  It  is  the  business  of  art  to  idealize.; 
Even  at  its  best  art  is  so  inferior  to  nature,  that  in 
order  to  produce  the  same  impression  it  has  to  in- 
tensify its  effects;  to  deepen  the  colors,  heighten  the 
contrasts,  omit  an  object  here,  exaggerate  an  out- 
line there,  and  so  on,  until  it  has  produced  the  proper 
picturesque  effect."* 

A  careful   description  of  the  appearance  of  the 
characters  may  be  necessary  to  the  understanding 

*  "  Rudimentary  Suggestions  for  Beginners  in  Story  Writ- 
ing," by  E.  F.  Andrews.    Cosmopolitan.    Feb.,  '97. 

96 


THE  CHARACTERS 

of  the  story,  as  in  Irving's  perfect  picture  of  Ichabod 
Crane  in  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  ";  but  in 
our  model  the  people  are  rather  typical  than  individ- 
ual, and  Hawthorne  devotes  but  little  space  to 
their  external  characteristics.  A  word  or  a  phrase 
suffices  to  tell  us  all  that  is  necessary  to  enable  our 
minds  to  body  them  forth.  Even  the  hero  is  out- 
wardly distinguished  only  by  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion— a  slight  of  which  no  school-girl  "  authoress  " 
would  have  been  guilty.  It  is  more  often  necessary 
to  give  the  mental  characteristics  of  the  puppets,  and 
in  "  The  Ambitious  Guest "  we  have  a  deal  of  such 
detail  concerning  the  young  stranger;  but  here,  too, 
you  must  exercise  forbearance,  as  Hawthorne  did  in 
his  partial  analysis  of  the  other  characters. 
4jt  is  by  no  means  essential  that  the  personages  of 
a  short  story  be  attractive  in  person  or  in  character. 
The  taste  of  readers  used  to  be  so  artificial  that  no  ro- 
mancer would  have  dared  to  present  a  heroine  who 
was  not  perfect  in  face  and  figure,  or  a  hero  who  was 
not  an  Apollo  for  manly  beauty;  but  in  these  more 
practical  days  we  have  substituted  good  deeds  for 
good  looks  and  have  made  our  characters  more  hu- 
man— our  men  more  manly  and  our  women  more 


97 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

womanly;  and  we  exalt  them  now  for  heroic  acts, 
rather  than  heroic  mould. 

A  mistake  which  it  seems  hard  for  the  novice  to 
avoid  is  that  of  telling  everything  possible  about  a 
character  and  leaving  nothing  to  the  imagination  of 
the  reader.  This  exhaustive  method  leads  to  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  detail  which  verges  on  baldness,  and 
which  is  very  apt  to  contain  considerable  irrelevant 
matter;  the  details  are  usually  arranged  with  little 
regard  for  their  true  value;  and  the  intended  de- 
scription becomes  a  mere  catalogue  of  personal 
charms.  For  example,  in  these  three  descriptions, 
detailed  though  they  are,  there  is  nothing  to  distin- 
guish the  particular  person  described  from  the  scores 
of  other  people  possessing  the  same  general  traits : 

He  was  a  tall,  deep-chested,  broad-shouldered  man, 
having  a  light  complexion,  dark  moustache,  hair  and 
eyes. 

We  will  take  a  look  at  our  heroine,  as  she  sits  lazily 
rocking,  the  sunshine  touching  her  hair.  She  is  of 
medium  height,  with  black  hair  and  eyes  and  a  winning 
smile  that  makes  friends  for  her  everywhere. 

Lura  was  yet  but  a  slight  school  girl ;  she  was  now 
fifteen  and  equally  as  large  as  Grace.  She  looked  very 
beautiful  as  she  came  out  to  meet  Grace  and  Mrs.  Morton, 
on  their  return  from  the  village.  Her  dark  brown  hair 

98 


THE  CHARACTERS 

had  been  carefully  combed  back,  but  the  short  locks  ha 
fallen  and  formed  in  ringlets  about  the  snowy  neck  and 
face.  Her  large  gray  eyes  were  bright.  Her  full 
curved  lips  were  red,  and  in  laughing  and  talking  re- 
vealed two  rows  of  small,  even,  pearly  white  teeth.  Her 
cheeks  were  round  and  well  formed;  although  at  the 
present  time  they  bore  no  marks  of  roses,  they  were 
generally  rosy.  The  gray  eyes,  by  the  changing  of  the 
expression,  often  became  almost  black  and  greatly  com- 
pleted her  beauty 

^Clever  character  depiction  consists  in  selecting  and 
presenting  only  those  salient  details  which  will  serve 
to  body  forth  rather  a  vague  image,  which  shall  yet 
possess  a  definite  personality,  to  which  the  reader 
may  give  such  distinctness  as  his  imagination  may 
impart  to  the  hints  offered,  i  It  is  in  a  manner 
building  a  complete  character  upon  a  single  charac- 
teristic, after  the  familiar  method  of  Dickens.  It 
is  this  impressionistic  method  which  is  most  used  by 
masters  to  picture  those  characters  which  seem  to 
us  real  persons. 

In  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,"  Irving  thus 
describes  the  hero  (?),  Ichabod  Crane,  and  the  he- 
roine, Katrina  Van  Tassel : 

The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to  his 
person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  narrow 

99 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a 
mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for 
shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  to- 
gether. His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  the  top,  with 
huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe 
nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather-cock,  perched 
upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew. 
4To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a 
windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering 
about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius 
of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scare- 
crow eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen,  plump  as  a 
partridge,  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked  as  one 
of  her  father's  peaches,  and  universally  famed,  not 
merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She 
was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived 
even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and 
foreign  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms. 
She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold  which  her 
great-great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saar- 
dam,  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time,  and 
withal  a  provokingly  short  petticoat  10  display  the 
prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Here  are  Hawthorne's  pictures  of  Beatrice  and  her 
father  in  "  Rappaccini's  Daughter  ": 

On  again  beholding  Beatrice  the  young  man  was 
even  startled  to  perceive  how  much  her  beauty  exceeded 
his  recollection  of  it — so  brilliant,  so  vivid  in  its  char-. 

IOQ 


THE  CHARACTERS 

acter,  that  she  glowed  amid  the  sunlight,  and,  as  Gio- 
vanni whispered  to  himself,  positively  illuminated  the 
more  shadowy  intervals  of  the  garden  path.  Her  face 
being  now  more  revealed  than  on  the  former  occasion, 
he  was  struck  by  its  expression  of  simplicity  and  sweet- 
ness— qualities  that  had  not  entered  into  his  idea  of 
her  character,  and  which  made  him  ask  anew  what 
manner  of  mortal  she  might  be.  Nor  did  he  fail  again 
to  observe  or  imagine  an  analogy  between  the  beau- 
tiful girl  and  the  gorgeous  shrub  that  hung  its  gem- 
like  flowers  over  the  fountain — a  resemblance  which 
Beatrice  seemed  to  have  indulged  a  fantastic  humor 
in  heightening  both  by  the  arrangement  of  her  dress 
and  the  selection  of  its  hues. 

His  figure  soon  emerged  into  view,  and  showed  itself 
to  be  that  of  no  common  laborer,  but  a  tall,  emaciated, 
sallow  and  sickly-looking  man  dressed  in  a  scholar's 
garb  of  black.  He  was  beyond  the  middle  term  of  life, 
with  gray  hair,  and  a  thin  gray  beard  and  a  face  singu- 
larly marked  with  intellect  and  cultivation,  but  which 
could  never,  even  in  his  more  youthful  days,  have  ex- 
pressed much  warmth  of  heart. 

And  this  is  the  way  Dickens  sets  forth  Scrooge, 
the  old  miser,  in  "  A  Christmas  Carol  " : 

Oh!  But  he  was  a  tight-fisted  hand  at  the  grind- 
stone, Scrooge!  a  squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping, 
scraping,  clutching,  covetous,  old  sinner!  Hard  and 
sharp  as  flint,  from  which  no  steel  had  ever  struck  out 
generous  fire;  secret,  and  self-contained,  and  solitary 

101 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

as  an  oyster.  The  cold  within  him  froze  his  old  fea- 
tures, nipped  his  pointed  nose,  shrivelled  his  cheek,  stiff- 
ened his  gait,  made  his  eyes  red,  his  thin  lips  blue ;  and 
spoke  out  shrewdly  in  his  grating  voice.  A  frosty  rime 
was  on  his  head,  and  on  his  eyebrows,  and  his  wiry 
chin.  He  carried  his  own  low  temperature  always 
about  with  him ;  he  iced  his  office  in  the  dog-days ;  and 
didn't  thaw  it  one  degree  at  Christmas. 

There  is  very  little  of  the  catalogue  style  of  de- 
scription here;  indeed,  the  characters  can  hardly  be 
said  to  be  described :  the  author  gives  rather  the  sen- 
sations which  they  produced  on  observers  and  so  ex- 
cites similar  sensations  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 

When  once  introduced  the  characters  should  be  al- 
lowed to  work  out  their  identities  with  the  least  pos- 
sible interference  from  the  author.  Their  charac- 
teristics must  not  be  listed  like  invoices  of  goods : 
they  must  themselves  display  the  psychological 
powers  with  which  they  were  endowed  by  their 
creator.  Their  speeches  and  actions  must  seem  the 
results  of  mental  processes,  and  must  appear  natural, 
if  not  logical;  indeed,  it  is  an  open  question  if  they 
can  be  both  at  once,  for  there  are  few  people  who  are 
always  logical.  A.  One  good  method  of  presenting  the 
characteristics  of  a  fictitious  personage  is  to  indulge 
in  a  bit  of  mind  reading,  and  give  his  thoughts  as  he 

102 


THE  CHARACTERS 

thinks  them;  another  and  better  way  is  to  show  the 
man  actuated  by  his  dominant  mental  qualitiesV  In 
"The  Cask  of  Amontillado"  Poe  builds  a  whole 
story  on  an  elaboration  of  the  latter  method,  and 
presents  the  picture  of  a  man  temporarily  mastered 
by  the  spirit  of  revenge.  It  is  only  by  thus  allowing 
the  characters  to  work  out  their  own  destinies  that 
you  can  make  them  real;  otherwise  they  will  appear 
as  mere  painted  puppets,  without  life  or  volition. 

On  account  of  the  technical  limitations  of  the 
short  story  the  number  of  characters  which  may 
have  principal  or  "  speaking "  parts  is  very  small 
— in  general  only  two,  and  frequently  but  one. 
There  are  usually  other  characters  present  to 
help  out  the  action,  but  they  are  merely  supernu- 
meries,  without  form,  life  or  influence.  There 
are  many  violations  of  this  rule,  I  admit,  among 
them  such  stories  as  Hawthorne's  "  The  Great  Stone 
Face,"  "  The  Seven  Vagabonds,"  and  "  The  Great 
Carbuncle;"  but  analvsis  shows  them  to  be  pano- 
ramic or  episodic  in  effect,  and  really  violating  the 
unity  of  action  which  the  short  story  demands.  For 
similar  reasons  the  characters  presented  must  be  un- 
naturally isolated,  with  little  past  and  less  future, 
and  most  strangely  lacking  in  relatives ;  for  the  few 

103 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

thousand  words  oi  the  short  story  permit  but  a  cur- 
sory treatment  of  the  ancestry,  birth,  breeding  and 
femily  of  the  one  or  two  important  characters)  If 
by  any  trick  they  can  be  made  the  last  of  a  long  line, 
and  be  snatched  from  obscurity  into  the  momentary 
glare  of  the  lime  light,  so  much  the  better  for  author, 
reader  and  character;  but  if  some  portion  of  their 
history  bears  upon  the  story,  let  it  be  presented  by 
subtle  touches,  preferably  by  references  in  the  dia- 
logue, so  that  the  reader  obtains  the  necessary 
knowledge  without  being  conscious  of  the  means; 

The  few  real  characters  in  the  story  must  be  made 
unusually  interesting  on  account  of  their  loneliness. 
They  compose  the  story,  they  represent  the  human 
race,  and  if  they  fail  us  we  are  in  sad  straits.  They 
must  be  individual;  they  must  stand  out  sharply  from 
the  page,  clear  and  attractive,  and  leave  no  doubt  of 
their  personalities.  More  than  any  other  form  of 
fiction,  the  short  story  depends  upon  its  hero  and 
heroine,  who  have  "  star  parts  "  and  monopolize  the 
stage  of  action.  We  must  see  them  so  vividly  that 
when  they  speak  and  act  we  shall  perceive  them  as 
actual  personages.  It  is  such  accuracy  of  depiction 
that  makes  Rip  Van  Winkle,  Sherlock  Holmes,  Van 


104 


THE  CHARACTERS 

Bibber,  and  a  host  of  others  enter  into  our  thoughts 
and  speech  as  if  they  had  really  lived. 

The  names  with  which  we  label  these  dolls  may  be 
of  importance.  In  these  days  names  have  little  sig- 
nificance, yet  we  still  feel  that  a  name  from  its  very 
sound  may  be  appropriate  or  otherwise,  and  no  care- 
ful writer  would  give  to  his  characters  appellations 
selected  at  random.  Names  are  frequently  used  to 
good  advantage  as  aids  to  character  depiction  or  to 
enhance  humorous  effects,  as  in  the  case  of  Haw- 
thorne's Feathertop  and  Monsieur  du  Miroir,  and 
Irving's  Ichabod  Crane,  and  in  many  other  instances 
familiar  to  readers  of  Dickens. 

"  Dickens's  names  are  marvelously  apt,  as  we  see 
from  the  passing  into  common  phrase  of  so  many  of 
them.  Not  a  few  have  become  synonyms  for  the 

kind  of  character  to  which  they  were  attached 

If  a  name  is  to  hint  at  character  it  should  do  so  in 
the  subtlest  manner  possible — in  a  manner  so  subtle 
as  to  escape  all  but  the  quickwitted,  who  will  forgive 
the  inartistic  method  in  their  pride  at  being  so  clever 

as  to  detect  the  writer's  intention In  these 

days,  when  craftsmanship  is  cared  for  and  looked 
for  more  than  ever, novelists  must  sacrifice 


105 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

nothing  that  will  lend  a  trick  of  reality  to  their  im- 
aginings. If  they  take  any  pains  to  select  names  for 
their  characters  they  should  hit  upon  such  as  will  be 
seen  to  suit  them  when  their  books  have  been  read 
(like  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  or  Gabriel  Oak) ; 
names  that  attempt  with  clumsy  impertinence  to  give 
a  clew  to  character  at  the  outset  are  best  left  to  the 
inept  amateur  of  letters  who  has  not  wit  enough  to 
dispense  with  such  aid. 

"  To  be  avoided,  also,  are  out-of-the-way  names 
that  may  have  living1  owners  in  the  real  world.  No 
John  Smith  or  Tom  Jones  can  complain  if  writers 
christen  their  characters  after  them;  but  if  a  man 
owns  a  peculiar  name  he  dislikes  having  it  borrowed 
and  attached  to  some  figure  in  fiction  whose  pro- 
ceedings very  likelv  do  it  little  credit Every 

writer  must  know  the  satisfaction  that  comes  when 
an  *  exquisitely  right '  name  is  hit  upon.  But  it 
is  just  as  well  to  take  reasonable  precautions  to  avoid 
indignant  protests  such  as  that  which  Hawthorne 
drew  upon  himself  "*  for  his  use  of  the  name  Judge 
Pyncheon  in  "  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables." 

The  dramatic  trend  of  the  short  story  is  responsi- 


*"  Names  in  Fiction,"  by  H.  H.  F.    Literature.    Jan.  19, 
'99- 

1 06 


ble  for  its  tendency  to  advance  action  by  speech. 
Good  short  stories  have  been  written  and  will  be 
written  which  contain  little  or  no  dialogue;  they  suc- 
ceed through  vividness  of  plot,  skill  in  character  de- 
piction, ingenuity  of  construction,  or  some  such 
quality;  but  they  would  be  more  interesting  and 
more  natural  if  they  held  more  conversation^  A 
short  story  should  be  full  of  talk  of  the  proper  kind; 
there  are  few  people  who  preserve  silence  at  all  times, 
and  in  the  exciting:  moments  which  a  short  story 
usually  presents,  most  persons  would  find  tongue  to 
voice  their  teeming  thoughts.  Speech  adds  natural- 
ness and  vividness  to  the  actors,  it  lends  them  a  per- 
sonal interest,  it  gives  insight  into  character,  and  it 
aids  the  development  of  the  plot.  /, 

This  is  a  modern  tendency,  for  the  stories  of  Kip- 
ling, Stevenson,  Wilkins,  Davis  and  Doyle  contain 
much  more  of  the  conversational  element  than  those 
of  Poe,  Hawthorne  or  Irving.  Where  the  latter 
would  present  a  mental  struggle  or  a  crisis  by  some 
paragraphs  of  description,  the,  former  express  it  in 
the  short  exciting  words  of  the  actors  themselves; 
even  soliloquies  and  asides  and  other  of  the  most 
mechanical  devices  of  the  drama  are  forced  into  the 
service  of  the  short  story,  to  replace  the  long  ex- 

107 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

planatory  passages  such  as  were  used  by  Irving.  It 
has  been  predicted  that  in  the  short  story  of  the  fu- 
ture the  characters  will  be  briefly  introduced  and  then 
will  be  allowed  to  speak  for  themselves;  if  this 
prophecy  comes  true  we  shall  have  stories  similar  to 
Hope's  "  The  Dolly  Dialogues,"  or  Howells'  little 
dramas,  where  there  is  almost  no  comment  by  the 
:author.  It  is  more  probable,  though,  that  there  is 
:something  of  a  "  fad  "  in  the  present  liking  for  pure 
dialogue,  and  that  the  short  story  will  never  attain 
the  absolute  puritv  of  the  drama. 

If  these  fictitious  personages  are  to  talk,  however, 
they  must  talk  naturally  and  interestingly — and 
"  there's  the  rub !  "  As  in  real  life  a  man  often 
shows  himself  to  be  a  fool  when  he  begins  to  talk,  so 
in  fiction  a  character  frequently  proves  to  be  but  a 
poor  puppet  of  straw  when  he  opens  his  mouth.  The 
only  way  to  make  your  characters  talk  naturally  is 
to  imitate  the  speech  of  the  persons  whom  they  in 
some  degree  represent.  People  in  general  do  not 
talk  by  book:  they  use  colloquial  language,  full  of 
poor  grammar,  slang,  and  syncopated  words;  and 
their  sentences  are  neither  always  logical  nor  com- 
plete. In  reproducing  this,  however,  you  must 
"edit"  it  a  little,  using  your  own  judgment  as  to 

108 


THE  CHARACTERS 

which  are  the  characteristic  idioms;  for  the  speech 
of  the  people  in  books  is  admittedly  a  little  better 
than  in  real  life — except  in  dialect  stories,  where  it 
is  usually  worse;  and  you  must  avoid  equally  the 
heavy  rhetorical  stvle  of  the  extreme  romantic 
school,  and  the  inane  commonplaces  of  the  radical 
realists. 

Conversation  like  the  following  is  commonly 
termed  "bookish";  it  is  painfully  correct  and  la- 
boriously profound — but  it  is  not  natural.  If  it  were 
meant  for  a  burlesque  upon  polite  and  "  cultured  " 
society  it  would  be  exquisite,  but  it  is  the  manner 
in  which  the  writer  believes  people  really  talk,  though 
it  is  easy  to  guess  that  he  himself  is  far  from  such 
absurd  affectations  in  his  familiar  speech. 

"  By  way  of  preliminary,  I  have  to  say  that  my  name 
is  Athlee — Felix  Athlee,  and  yours  is  Miss  India  Le- 
mare.  I've  seen  you  before." 

"  In  the  flesh,  I  hope,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  I  like  you  better  that  way,  though  you  now 
wear  the  expression  of  one  older  in  years  and  experi- 
ence. Wherefore,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Shadows  fall  on  the  young  as  well  as  the  old.  One 
is  fortunate,  indeed,  to  keep  always  in  the  sunshine." 

"  And  flit  like  the  butterfly,  without  volition  or  ef- 
fort? Human  appointments  are  different.  Work  is  the 

109 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

inevitable,  and  with  the  proper  tools,  it  is  pleasant 
enough." 

"  They  must,  long  ago,  have  rusted,  for  the  want 
of  use." 

"  No,  we  have  simply  to  consider  our  specialty  and 
we  find  them  ready  at  hand.  Have  you  done  so?  " 

"  I  am  dazed,  and  my  brain  works  capriciously." 

"  Except  in  the  interest  of  your  desires.  What  are 
they?" 

"  Wealth  for  independence,  leisure  for  indulgence, 
and  fame,  the  outcome  of  talent." 

His  luminous  eyes  looked  out  over  the  water,  as  he 
said :  "  The  universal  hunt  of  mankind  is  for  happiness, 
and  he  searches  for  it  in  as  many  ways  as  there  are 
peculiarities  of  disposition.  Does  he  ever  really  find 
it  ?  Many  weary  hearts  are  covered  with  the  soft  down 
of  wealth.  Mischief  lurks  in  indulgence,  and  fame 
dazzles  but  to  elude.  It  is  wiser  to  accept  what  the 
gods  give,  and  use  the  gifts  for  the  betterment  of  others 
as  well  as  ourselves." 

"  Meaningless  words,  when  one  is  at  enmity  with  the 
gods  for  withholding.  What  fine  spun  theories  we  mor- 
tals have !  " 

To  the  listener  every  conversation  contains  a  deal 
of  commonplace :  it  may  be  that  the  speakers  really 
have  nothing  interesting  to  say,  and  it  may  be  that 
their  conversation  is  so  personal  as  to  interest  them- 
selves only.  The  reader  occupies  the  position  of  a 
listener,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  author  to  suppress 

no 


THE  CHARACTERS 

all  commonplace  dialogue,  unless,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pens, it  assists  in  plot  or  character  development. 
Conversation  like  the  following  is — let  us  hope — in- 
teresting to  the  parties  concerned,  but  the  reader 
would  be  delivered  from  it  as  from  a  plague. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  get  one  desire  of  my  heart." 

"And  that  is?"  said  Al. 

"Snow!" 

"  So  glad  that  is  all.  I  thought  you  had  spied  my 
new  tie  and  was  planning  some  '  crazy  design  '  upon  it." 

"  Oh,  let  me  see !  Now,  really,  that  is  becoming  to 
your  style,  but  I  think  it  would  suit  mine  better. 
'  Brown  eyes  and  black  hair  should  never  wear  blue — 
that  is  for  grey  eyes,  the  tried  and  true.'  £ee?  " 

"  Neither  the  eyes  nor  the  tie,"  said  Al,  as  he  turned 
his  back  and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling. 

The  real  difficulty  with  this  dialogue  is  that  the 
writer  attempted  to  make  his  characters  "  smart " 
and  so  permitted  them  to  indulge  in  repartee;  but  as 
they  were  only  commonplace  people  the  privilege  was 
too  much  for  them  and  they  merely  twaddled. 
They  did  succeed  in  being  humorous,  but  the  humor 
is  unconscious. 

Yet  unconscious  humor  is  preferable  to  the  forced 
and  desperate  attempt  at  fun-making  which  we  have 
in  this  extract ; 

in 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is  proud,"  said  Joe  to  Tom,  his 
younger  brother.  "  But  you  know  he  has  been  to  the 
Holy  Land  and  cannot  now  associate  with  such  wicked 
sinners  as  we  are.  Or  else  he  has  turned  Jew  and 
thinks  we  are  Samaritans." 

"  You  two  are  getting  no  better  fast,"  said  the  doctor, 
after  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Wait  until  you  get  sick,  I'll 
give  you  a  pill  that  will  make  you  repent." 

"  We  are  never  going  to  get  sick,"  said  Joe,  "  but 
expect  to  live  until  we  are  so  old  that  we  will  dry  up 
and  blow  away  with  the  wind,  or  go  to  heaven  in  a 
'  Chariot  of  Fire.' '  Turning  to  the  doctor  Joe  con- 
tinued :  "  You  know  Will  has  a  girl,  and  he  is  awful 
pious.  If  one  looks  off  his  book  in  church,  even  to  wink 
at  his  best  girl,  he  thinks  it  an  awful  sin.  And  that  the 
guilty  one  should  be  dipped  in  holy  water,  or  do  peni- 
tence for  a  week." 

It  is  a  common  trick  for  the  novice  to  put  into  the 
mouths  of  his  characters  just  such  stale  jokes  and 
cheap  jests,  with  the  idea  that  he  is  doing  something 
extremely  funny.  He  is,  but  his  audience  is  laugh- 
ing at  him,  not  at  his  characters. 

But  most  exasperating-  of  all  is  the  author  who, 
while  making:  his  characters  suffer  the  most  dread- 
ful afflictions,  lets  them  think  and  talk  only  com- 
monplaces still,  like  the  poor  sawdust  dolls  that  they 
are: 

113 


THE  CHARACTERS 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Annie  ?  "  I  said  one 
day,  about  five  months  after  she  had  come  home 

"  You  will  know  some  time,  Cicely,"  she  answered.  .  . 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  me  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  You  will  know  soon  enough,"  she  answered.  "  By 
the  by,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  going  to  Mr.  Denham's 
to-morrow." 

"Alone?" 

"  No,  I  am  going  with  Cousin  Ivan." 

"  When  will  you  be  back  ?  "  I  asked,  for  Mr.  Denham 
lived  twenty  miles  away. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  sadly. 

The  next  morning  I  went  over  to  see  Annie  off. 
I  had  been  there  but  a  few  minutes  when  her  cousin, 
Ivan  Carleon,  came.  He  was  about  six  feet  high,  with 
dark,  brown  eyes,  and  black  hair  and  moustache.  He 
was  a  quiet  man  and  I  liked  him.  When  they  got  ready 
to  start,  Annie  came  and  kissed  me. 

"  I  am  ready  now,  Ivan."  And  then  he  helped  her 
into  the  buggy,  and  they  drove  off. 

Two  days  afterwards,  as  I  was  sitting  under  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  where  Annie  and  I  had  played  when 
we  were  small,  Miss  Jones,  an  old  school  fellow,  came 
along. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  "  she  asked,  before  she 
had  got  up  to  me. 

"What  news?" 

"  Why,  Ivan  Carleon  has  killed  Annie." 

"  Explain  yourself,  Daisy,"  I  answered  anxiously. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  we  ain't  sure  Ivan  killed  her ;  but 
erery  one  thinks  so.  You  know  that  big  gate,  about  a 

"3 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

mile  this  side  of  Mr.  Denham's?  Well,  day  before 
yesterday  Ivan  came  running  up  to  Mr.  Denham,  and 
said  that  Annie  had  shot  herself,  down  at  the  big  gate. 
They  all  went  down  and  found  Annie  stone  dead.  A 
note  in  her  pocket  merely  stated  that  she  was  tired  of 
life.  But  every  one  thinks  Ivan  killed  her,  and  that  he- 
wrote  the  note  himself.  I  hope  Ivan  didn't  do  it,"  she 
said,  as  she  started  off,  "  for  I  liked  him." 

The  evening  of  the  third  day,  as  I  was  sitting  under 
the  same  tree,  I  was  startled  to  feel  a  hand  on  my 
shoulder.  Looking  up,  I  saw  Ivan  Carleon  standing 
by  my  side.  I  gave  a  low  cry,  and  shrank  from  him. 
He  turned  pale  to  his  lips. 

"  Surely  you  don't  think  I  murdered  her?"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  I  answered,  bursting 
into  tears. 

"  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  continued, 
moving  for  him  on  the  bench. 

He  sat  down  beside  me;  and  laid  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

Imagine,  if  you  can.  the  bearer  of  terrible  news  who 
would  unburden  herself  with  as  little  excitement 
us  Miss  Jones  exhibits;  or  a  real  girl  who, 
on  hearing  of  the  tragic  death  of  her  bosom 
friend,  would  be  merelv  "  anxious  "  and  bid  her  in- 
formant "  Explain  yourself !  "  The  author  of  this 
could  not  have  had  the  slightest  conception  of  the 
tragedy  which  he  had  created,  or  even  his  poor  life* 

114 


THE  CHARACTERS 

less  puppets  must  have  been  galvanized  into  some 
show  of  real  feeling. 

/It  is  neither  necessarv  nor  desirable  that  you 
should  report  every  conversation  at  length,  even 
though  it  bear  upon  the  story.  Do  not  reproduce 
long  conversations  simply  to  say  something  or  to 
air  your  views  on  current  topics.}  It  is  just  as  much 
a  fault  to  introduce  useless  chatter  as  it  is  to  fill 
page  after  page  with  descriptions  of  unused  places. 
If  the  hero  and  the  heroine,  by  a  brief  bright  conver- 
sation, can  put  the  reader  in  possession  of  the  facts 
concerning  the  course  of  their  true  love,  they  should 
be  given  free  speech;  but  if  they  show  a  tendency  to 
moralize  or  prose  or  talk  an  "  infinite  deal  of 
nothing,"  shut  them  up  and  give  the  gist  of  their 
dialogue  in  a  few  succinct  sentences  of  your  own. 
Note  how  in  1"  10,  n  Hawthorne  has  condensed 
the  conversation  which  doubtless  occurred  at  the 
supper  table,  and  has  given  us  the  salient  points 
without  the  commonplaces  that  it  must  have  con- 
tained : 

He  was  of  a  proud  yet  gentle  spirit,  haughty  and  re- 
served among  the  rich  and  great,  but  ever  ready  to 
stoop  his  head  to  the  lowly  cottage  door  and  be  like  a 
brother  or  a  son  at  the  poor  man's  fireside.  ...  He 

.       "5 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

had  traveled  far  and  alone ;  his  whole  life,  indeed,  had 
been  a  solitary  path,  for,  with  the  lofty  caution  of  his 
nature,  he  had  kept  himself  apart  from  those  who  might 

otherwise  have  been  his  companions 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  was  a  high 
and  abstracted  ambition.  He  could  have  borne  to 
live  an  undistinguished  life,  but  not  to  be  forgotten  in 
the  grave. 

and  how  in  1"  13  he  has  given  us  the  trend  of  the 
young  man's  rhapsody,  instead  of  wearying  us  with 
what  was  probably  rather  a  long  and  tiresome  speech : 

There  was  a  continual  flow  of  natural  emotion  gush- 
ing forth  amid  abstracted  reverie  which  enabled  the 
family  to  understand  this  young  man's  sentiment, 
though  so  foreign  from  their  own. 

One  form  of  the  talkative  short  story  that  forms 
a  serious  stumbling  block  to  the  novice  is  the  dia- 
lect story.  If  you  have  an  idea  of  trying  that  style 
of  composition,  let  me  warn  you:  Don't!  Dialect 
stories  never  were  very  artistic,  for  they  are  a  para- 
doxical attempt  to  make  good  literature  of  poor 
rhetoric  and  worse  grammar.  They  have  never  been 
recognized  or  written  by  any  great  master  of  fiction. 
They  are  a  sign  of  a  degenerate  taste,  and  their 
production  or  perusal  is  a  menace  to  the  formation 
and  preservation  of  a  good  literary  style.  They 

116 


THE  CHARACTERS 

are  merely  a  fad,  which  is  already  of  the  past;  and 
to-day  public  and  publisher  turn  in  nausea  from 
a  mess  of  dialect  which  yesterday  they  would  have 
greedily  devoured;  so  that  now  there  is  even  no 
pecuniary  excuse  for  dialect  stories.  They  were 
doomed  to  an  ephemeral  existence,  for  what  little 
charm  they  ever  possessed  was  based  upon  the  hu- 
man craving  for  something  odd  and  new;  the  best 
stories  of  Barrie  and  Maclaren  live  because  of  their 
intense  human  feeling,  and  they  would  have  suc- 
ceeded as  well  and  endured  longer  if  they  had  been 
clothed  in  literary  Engrlish. 

"  That  there  is  good  in  dialect  none  may  deny; 
but  that  good  is  only  when  it  chances,  as  rarely,  to 
be  good  dialect;  when  it  is  used  with  just  discretion 
and  made  the  effect  of  circumstances  naturally  aris- 
ing, not  the  cause  and  origin  of  the  circumstance 
itself.  When  the  negro,  the  '  cracker  '  or  the  moun- 
taineer dialect  occurs  naturally  in  an  American  story, 
it  often  gives  telling-  effects  of  local  color  and  of 
shading.  But  the  negro  or  '  cracker '  story  per  se 
can  be  made  bearable  only  by  the  pen  of  a  master; 
and  even  then  it  may  be  very  doubtful  if  that  same 
pen  had  not  proved  keener  in  portraiture,  more  just 
to  human  nature  in  the  main,  had  the  negro  or  the 
l  117 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

'  cracker  '  been  the  mere  episode,  acting  on  the  main 
theme,  and  itself  reacted  on  by  that."  * 

Study  carefully,  as  models  of  good  character 
analysis  and  presentation,  Stevenson's  "  Mark- 
heim;  "  Hawthorne's  "The  Great  Stone  Face;" 
Ichabod  Crane  in  Irving's  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy 
Hollow;"  Poe's  "William  Wilson;"  Louisa  Ellis 
in  Wilkins'  "A  New  England  Nun;  "  Van  Bibber 
in  Davis'  "Van  Bibber  and  Others;"  Henry  St. 
George  in  James'  "  The  Lesson  of  the  Master." 


*"The  Day  of  Dialect,"  by  T.  C.  De  Leon.    Lippincotfs. 
Nov.,  '97. 


II* 


NOT  only  must  you  have  a  story  to  tell,  but  you 
must  tell  it  well.  The  charm  and  interest  of  a  story 
come  not  from  the  plot  itself  but  from  your  hand- 
ling of  it.  The  question  of  the  proper  method  of 
narration  is  to  a  considerable  extent  a  matter  of 
suitability — of  giving  the  narrative  an  appropriate 
setting;  it  is  also  a  matter  of  the  point  of  view  of  the 
narrator — whether  he  is  to  tell  the  story  as  one  of  the 
actors,  or  simply  as  an  impersonal  observer.  A 
dozen  master  story  writers  would  tell  the  same  tale 
in  a  dozen  different  ways,  and  each  of  them  would 
seem  to  be  the  right  wav ;  for  each  writer  would  view 
the  events  from  a  particular  angle,  and  would  make 
his  point  of  view  seem  the  natural  one.  But  the 
novice  is  not  always  happy  in  his  choice  of  a  view 
point;  or  rather,  he  lacks  the  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience that  would  teach  him  how  to  treat  his  sub- 
ject from  the  particular  side  from  which  he  has 
chosen  to  consider  it.  Yet  a  capable  and  clever 

119 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

writer  may  sometimes  find  himself  puzzled  to  choose 
between  a  number  of  methods,  any  one  of  which 
seems  appropriate  and  any  one  of  which  he  feels 
himself  competent  to  handle  satisfactorily :  the  ques- 
tion is  which  one  will  be  for  him  the  most  success- 
ful method  of  exploiting  his  thoughts. 

That  question  should  be  settled  with  regard  to 
the  suitability  of  the  method  to  the  matter  of  the 
story — and  here  suitability  is  synonymous  with  nat- 
uralness. It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  story  writ- 
ing is  only  a  modern  ohase  of  the  world-old  custom 
of  story  telling,  and  that  the  printed  page  should 
appear  as  natural  and  easy  to  the  eye  as  the  voice 
would  to  the  ear.  When  in  the  twilight  the  grand- 
mother gathers  the  children  about  her  knee  for  a 
story,  whether  it  be  a  bit  of  her  own  life  or  a  tale 
from  a  book,  she  does  not  strive  after  effect,  but  tells 
the  story  simply  and  naturally,  just  as  she  knows  it 
will  best  suit  the  children.  And  so  the  story  writer 
should  tell  his  tale — so  naturally  and  easily  that  the 
reader  will  forget  that  he  is  gazing  at  the  printed 
page,  and  will  believe  himself  a  spectator  at  an  actual 
scene  in  real  life. 

( The  great  difficulty  of  the  novice  is  to  subordinate 
his  own  personality .y  He  knows  that  he  must  in- 

I2O 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

dividualize  his  story,  and  that  that  is  best  done  by 
putting  something  of  himself  into  it;  and  he  does 
not  always  understand  that  it  is  only  his  spirit  that 
is  wanted,  and  that  his  body  will  be  very  much  in 
the  way.  Then,  too,  he  is  apt  to  be  a  little  self-con- 
scious, if  not  actually  self-conceited,  and  he  rather 
likes  the  idea  of  puttinsr  himself  into  his  work  so 
thoroughly  that  the  reader  must  always  be  conscious 
of  his  presence.  He  likes  to  show  his  superior 
knowledge  and  to  take  the  reader  into  his  confidence ; 
so  he  indulges  in  side  remarks,  and  criticisms,  and 
bits  of  moralizing,  and  in  general  exhibits  an  exas- 
perating tendency  to  consider  himself  and  his  per- 
sonal opinion  of  far  greater  importance  than  the 
story  which  he  is  expected  to  tell. 
.But  above  all  things  else  the  author  must  keep 
himself  out  of  sight,  and  must  refrain  from  inter- 
polating his  opinions.  \  He  is  supposed  to  be  an  im- 
personal person,  a  human  machine  through  the  me- 
dium of  which  the  story  is  preserved,  and  he  has 
no  proper  place  in  his  narrative.  One  no  more  ex- 
pects or  desires  a  speech  from  him  than  a  sermon 
from  a  penny-in-the-slot  phonograph  which  has  been 
paid  for  a  comic  song.  He  may  stand  behind  the 
scenes  and  manipulate  the  puppets  and  speak  for 

121 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

them,  but  his  hand  must  be  unseen,  his  voice  care- 
fully disguised,  and  his  personality  imperceptible; 
no  one  cares  for  the  man  who  makes  the  Punch  and 
Judy  show — he  is  judged  by  the  success  of  his  imi- 
tation of  life,  and  his  own  Appearance  will  speedily 
disillusionize  his  public.  Every  time  you  address 
your  public  as  "  dear  reader,"  "  gentle  reader," — or, 
as  Mark  Twain  has  it,  "  savage  reader  " — you  force 
upon  that  public  a  realization  of  your  presence  which 
is  as  disagreeable  and  inartistic  as  the  appearance 
of  the  Punch  and  Judy  man,  hat  in  hand,  seeking  a 
few  coppers  in  payment  of  the  amusement  he  has 
provided. 

(^In  the  short  story  no  personal  confidences,  moral- 
izing comments,  or  confessions  are  allowed.)  If  you 
must  express  your  opinions  and  make  your  person- 
ality felt,  write  lectures,  sermons,  essays,  books,  let- 
ters for  the  public  press — but  don't  write  short 
stories.  Men  read  short  stories  to  be  amused,  not 
instructed;  and  they  will  quickly  revolt  at  any  at- 
tempt on  your  part  to  introduce  into  your  narrative 
a  sugar-coated  argument  or  sermon. 

There  are  certain  methods  of  story  telling  much 
affected  by  the  amateur  which  are  particularly  dif- 
ficult to  do  well.  I  He  should  especially  eschew 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

stories  related  in  the  first  person,  those  told  by  let- 
ters, and  those  in  the  form  of  a  diary.  Notice,  I 
do  not  say  that  these  methods  are  absolutely  bad: 
they  have  been  successfully  used  by  masters;  but 
they  are  at  least  questionable,  and  they  contain  so 
many  pitfalls  for  the  unwary  that  it  is  far  better 
for  the  uninitiated  to  let  them  severely  alone] 

Narrative  in  the  first  person  gives  a  certain  real- 
ism through  the  mere  use  of  the  pronoun  "  I,"  and 
so  excites  some  measure  of  the  desired  personal  in- 
terest; but  the  same  result  may  be  secured,  without 
the  accompanying  disadvantages,  by  making  the 
characters  do  a  good  deal  of  talking.  That  method 
escapes  the  danger  of  getting  the  narrator  between 
the  story  and  the  reader;  for  the  puppet  who  "  I's  " 
his  way  through  the  narrative  is  apt  to  be  rather 
an  important  fellow,  Who  intrudes  on  the  most 
private  scenes,  and  who  prefers  moralizing  and 
philosophizing  to  the  legitimate  furthering  of  the 
plot;  thus  he  runs  no  small  risk  of  making  himself 
unpopular  with  the  reader,  and  so  proving  of  det- 
riment to  the  success  of  the  story  and  of  the  author. 

Then,  too,  when  the  author  is  speaking  in  his  own 
proper  person  the  reader  cannot  help  wondering  at 
times  how  one  man  could  know  so  much  about  what 

123 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

was  going  on,  even  if  he  were  a  veritable  Paul  Pry; 
while  we  have  become  so  used  to  granting  the  om- 
niscience and  omnipresence  of  the  invisible  third 
person  author  that  we  never  question  his  knowledge. 
If,  however,  the  hero-narrator  attempt  natural 
modesty  and  profess  to  but  slight  information  con- 
cerning the  story,  he  is  usually  a  most  dull  and  unin- 
teresting fellow,  who  is  endeavoring  to  relate  a 
matter  of  which  he  has  missed  the  most  essential 
parts.  And  at  all  times,  though  he  be  a  model  in 
all  other  respects,  the  very  fact  that  the  hero  is  tell- 
ing the  story  lessens  its  interest,  since  no  matter  what 
harrowing  experiences  he  has  suffered,  he  has  come 
safely  through ;  thus  the  narrative  lacks  that  anxiety 
for  the  hero's  welfare  which  is  so  large  a  factor  in 
the  delights  of  fiction. 

"  It  (first  person  narrative)  is  better  adapted,  no 
doubt,  to  adventure  than  to  analysis,  and  better  to 
the  expression  of  humour  than  to  the  realization  of 
tragedy.  As  far  as  the  presentation  of  character  is 
concerned,  what  it  is  usual  for  it  to  achieve  .... 
is  this :  a  life  size,  full  length,  generally  too  flattering 
portrait  of  the  hero  of  the  story — a  personage  who 
has  the  limelight  all  to  himself — on  whom  no  incon- 
venient shadows  are  ever  thrown; and  then 

124 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

a  further  graceful  idealization,  an  attractive  pastel, 
you  may  call  it,  the  lady  he  most  frequently  admired, 
and,  of  the  remainder,  two  or  three  Kit-Cat  portraits, 
a  head  and  shoulders  here,  and  there  a  stray  face."  * 
""""Stories  written  in  the  epistolary  or  diary  form  suf- 
fer all  the  disadvantages  of  first  person  narrative; 
but  they  are  also  liable  to  others,  equally  serious, 
which  are  peculiarly  their  own.  They  are  seldom 
natural,  in  the  first  place,  for  granted  that  people 
really  do  keep  interesting1  diaries  or  write  literary 
letters,  it  is  rare  in  either  case  that  a  story  would 
be  told  with  technical  correctness.  And  such  nar- 
ratives are  usually  poor  in  technique,  for  their  form 
necessitates  the  introduction  of  much  that  is  com- 
monplace or  irrelevant,  and  it  also  requires  the  pas- 
sage of  time  and  causes  breaks  in  the  thread  of  the 
plot.  These  forms  are  favorites  with  the  inexperi- 
enced because  they  seem  to  dodge  some  of  the  dif- 
ficulties that  beset  the  way  of  the  literary  aspirant. 
Their  form  is  necessarily  loose  and  disjointed,  and 
their  style  rambling  and  conversational,  and  these 
^qualities  are  characteristic  of  the  work  of  novices. 
"  But  if  fictitious  letters  are  so  seldom  anything 

*"The  Short  Story,"  by  Frederick  Wedmore.    Nineteenth 
Century.    Mar.,  '08. 

"5 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

but  tiresome,  is  this  because  '  the  age  of  letter  writ- 
ing is  past  ?'....  The  unpopularity  of  the  epis- 
tolary form  as  a  method  of  authorship  is,  in  fact,  due 
quite  as  much  to  a  chanee  of  taste  as  to  the  decay 
of  letter  writing.  The  old  practice  was  of  a  piece 
with  the  unrealities  of  the  eighteenth  century,  both 
in  art  and  letters.  It  necessitated  an  abundance  of 
superfluous  detail,  and  it  was  a  roundabout,  artifi- 
cial way  of  doing  what  the  true  artist  could  do  much 
better,  simply  and  directly.  It  gave,  of  course,  an 
opportunity  of  exhibiting  subjectively  many  '  fine 
shades  '  of  feeling.  But  it  is  certainly  much  more 
difficult  to  carry  conviction  in  inventing  letters  for 
fictitious  persons  than  in  making  them  converse.  In 
the  latter  case  there  is  a  background;  there  is  the 
life  and  movement  of  the  various  characters,  the 
spontaneity  of  question  and  reply,  and  the  running 
interchange  of  talk,  all  helping  to  keep  a  spell  upon 
the  reader.  The  letter  gives  much  less  chance  of 
illusion,  and  we  may  very  soon  become  conscious 
of  the  author — instead  of  the  suffered  correspondent 
— beating  his  brains  for  something  to  say  next."  * 

Another  poor  method,   indicative  of  callowness, 
is  making  the  hero,  so  to  speak,  an  animal  or  a 


*"The  Epistolary  Form."     Literature.     Apr.  7,  '99. 
126 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

thing,  and  permitting-  it  to  tell  its  own  story.  This 
has  peculiar  charm  for  the  tyro  because  of  its  sup- 
posed originality,  but  it  is  really  as  old  as  story 
telling  itself.  It  offends  greatly  against  naturalness, 
for  however  one  may  believe  in  the  story  of  Balaam's 
ass,  or  delight  in  ^Esop's  talking  brutes  or  Greece's 
talking  statues,  one  cannot  restrain  a  feeling  of  skep- 
ticism when  a  dog  or  a  coin  is  put  forward,  given 
human  attributes,  and  made  to  view  the  world 
through  man's  eyes.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
writer  attempts  to  read  the  thoughts  of  the  brute 
or  the  thing,  the  clifriculty  at  once  presents  itself 
that  he  can  only  guess  at  the  mental  processes  of 
the  one,  and  that  the  other  is  incapable  of  thought; 
so  that  in  either  case  the  result  is  unsatisfactory. 
One  exception  to  this  statement  must  be  made :  Kip- 
ling, in  his  "  Jungle  Book  "  stories,  seems  to  have 
achieved  the  impossible  and  read  for  us  the  very 
thoughts  of  the  brute  creation.  Unfortunately  it 
is  not  given  us  to  know  how  nearly  he  has  hit  their 
mental  processes;  but  his  animals  certainly  do  not 
think  with  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  their  cogita- 
tions, as  he  interprets  them,  appear  to  us  perfectly 
logical  and  natural.  Yet  the  success  of  Kipling  does 
not  at  all  lessen  the  force  of  my  general  statement, 

127 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

for  there  are  few  writers  who  would  care  to  cross 
pens  with  him  here.  Even  our  own  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  in  his  delightful  Uncle  Remus  stories,  has 
succeeded  only  in  giving  his  animals  human  ideas 
and  attributes.  The  whole  endeavor  to  endow  the 
rest  of  creation  with  man's  intelligence  is  too  thor- 
oughly artificial  to  offer  a  profitable  field  to  the 
short  story  writer. 

Again,  novices  err  frequently  through  introducing 
a  multiplicity  of  narrators,  either  writing  a  patch- 
work story  in  which  all  take  a  hand,  or  placing 
narration  within  narration  as  in  the  "  Arabian 
Nights."  The  method  of  allowing  a  number 
of  persons  consecutively  to  carry  on  the  plot  is 
very  attractive,  since  it  offers  a  way  of  intro- 
ducing a  personally  interested  narrator  witk- 
out  making  him  preternaturally  wise;  and  it  also  af- 
fords opportunitv  for  the  author  to  exhibit  his  skill 
in  viewing  events  from  all  sides  and  through  the 
minds  of  several  very  different  persons.  It  is,  how- 
ever, open  to  most  of  the  first  person  objections,  and 
it  is  liable  to  produce  a  disjointed  narrative;  but  it 
is  particularly  unhappy  in  the  short  story  because  it 
necessitates  the  introduction  and  disposition^of  a 
number  of  important  people. 

128 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

(The  use  of  narration  within  narration  is  more  ob- 
jectionable.) It  is  of  little  importance  who  tells  the 
story,  or  how  it  came  to  be  told;  the  less  the  narrator 
appears  the  better.     It  is  seldom  that  more  than  one 
narrator  is  necessary,  yet  two,  three,  or  even  more 
are  often  introduced,  with  full  descriptions  of  per- 
sons and  circumstances.     "  It  is  a  frequent  device  of 
the  unpractised  to  cover  pages  with  useless  expla- 
nations of  how  they  heard  a  tale  which  is  thus  elab- 
orately put  too  far  off  from  the  reader  to  appeal  to 
his  sympathies.     One  writer,  after  describing  a  ru- 
ral station,  his  waiting  for  the  train,  its  appearance 
when  it  arrives,  the  companions  of  his  journey,  and 
so  on,  is  wrecked,  and  spends  the  night  on  a  log 
with  an  old  farmer,  who  spins  him  a  domestic  yarn 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  went  before.    Why 
not  give  the  tale  direct,  in  the  character  of  the  old 
farmer?     There  is  no  law  against  that."  * 

This  practice  is  due  to  the  fact  that  amateurs  usu- 
ally begin  by  writing  strictly  true  stories,  and  they 
always  consider  it  of  prime  importance  that  they 
had  the  tale  from  grandmother,  or  that  it  actually 
occurred  to  John's  wife's  second  cousin's  great  aunt; 

*  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
erick M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs.    Nov.,  '94. 

129 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

forgetting,  in  their  unconscious  egotism,  that  the 
reader  cares  only  for  the  narrative,  and  nothing  for 
the  narrator.  Stories  told  to  interested  listeners  by 
"  grandma,"  an  "  old  hunter,"  or  some  loquacious 
"  stranger,"  usually  need  to  be  so  revised  that  the 
intrusive  relater  will  disappear,  merged  in  the  un- 
obtrusive author.  Indeed,  it  is  policy  so  to  re- 
vise them,  for  the  editor  usually  considers  the  au- 
thor who  begins  thus  too  amateurish  for  him : 

"  Your  turn  now,  Captain,"  was  the  exclamation  of 
several  gentlemen  who  were  seated  around  a  table,  tell- 
ing stories,  narrating  adventures,  playing  cards  and 
drinking  each  others'  healths. 

"  What  will  you  have,  gentlemen  ?  "  inquired  Captain 
R — ,  a  tall,  handsome  man  of  middle  age,  who  had  been 
in  command  of  a  large  ocean  steamer  many  years. 

"  Oh,  one  of  your  adventures,"  said  one  of  the  party ; 
"  for  surely  you  must  have  had  some." 

"Ah,  very  well,  gentlemen — I  remember  one  that 
will  no  doubt  interest  you ;  here  it  is :  " 

For  at  the  outset  he  knows,  and  he  knows  that  his 
readers  will  know,  that  the  tale  ends  thus : 

"  So  ends  my  story,  gentlemen ;  now  let  us  have  a 
drink  to  the  health  of  the  young  sailor's  wife,  the 
dearest  woman  in  the  world." 

"  And  why  not  the  sailor's  health,  too  ?  "  asked  one 
of  the  gentlemen. 

130 


METHODS  OF  NARRATION 

"All  right,  sir,  just  as  you  please,  gentlemen,  for  I 
was  that  sailor." 

and  that  the  intervening  story  is  apt  to  be  every 
whit  as  stale  and  conventional  as  its  beginning  and 
its  end.  Irvine's  "  Tales  of  a  Traveller  "  show  how 
this  method  may  be  used  successfully;  yet  it  required 
all  of  Irving'' s  art  to  make  the  extra-narrative  pas- 
sages readable,  and  it  is  an  open  question  if  the  sto- 
ries would  not  have  been  improved  by  isolation. 

The  best  method  of  narration,  the  simplest  and 
most  natural,  is  to  tell  the  story  in  the  third  per- 
son, as  if  you  were  a  passive  observer;  to  make  the 
characters  active  and  conversational;  and  to  permit 
nothing,  not  even  your  own  personality,  to  get  be- 
tween the  reader  and  the  story. 


VIII 
THE  BEGINNING 

i  THE  crucial  test  of  the  short  story  is  the  manner  in 
which  it  begins.  Of  three-fourths  of  the  MSS.  sub- 
mitted to  him  the  editor  seldom  reads  more  than  the 
first  page,  for  he  has  learned  by  experience  that  if 
the  story  lacks  interest  there,  it  will  in  all  proba- 
bility be  lacking  throughout.  Therefore  it  behooves 
you  to  make  the  beginning  as  attractive  and  correct 
as  possible./ 

The  beginning  of  a  good  short  story  will  seldom 
comprise  more  than  two  or  three  paragraphs,  and 
often  it  can  be  compressed  into  one.  If  it  cannot 
get  to  the  story  proper  in  that  space  there  is  some- 
thing radically  wrong — probably  in  the  plot ;  for  the 
conventional  brevity  of  the  short  story  requires  par- 
ticular conciseness  in  the  introduction. 

In  every  story  there  are  certain  foundation 
facts  that  must  be  understood  by  the  reader  at  the 
outset  if  he  would  follow  the  narrative  easily. 
These  basic  truths  differ  greatly  in  different  stories, 

132 


THE  BEGINNING 

so  that  it  is  difficult  to  give  a  complete  list;  but 
they  are  usually  such  details  as  the  time  and  scene 
of  the  story,  the  names,  descriptions,  characteris- 
tics, and  relationships  of  the  different  characters, 
and  the  relation  of  events  prior  to  the  story  that 
may  influence  its  development^  You  must  make 
sure  that  the  details  which  you  select  are  fundamental 
and  that  thev  do  have  a  definite  influence  which  re- 
quires some  knowledge  of  them.  Any  or  all  of  these 
facts,  however,  mav  be  introduced  later  in  the  nar- 
rative when  their  need  appears;  or  they  may  be  left 
in  abeyance  to  enhance  the  element  of  suspense  or 
mystery. 

But  because  they  are  necessary  these  facts  need 
not  be  listed  and  ticketed  like  the  dramatis  personae 
of  a  play  bill.  They  should  be  introduced  so  deftly 
that  the  reader  will  comprehend  them  involuntarily; 
they  must  seem  an  intrinsic  part  of  the  warp  and 
woof  of  the  narrative.  In  themselves  they  are  com- 
monplaces, tolerated  only  because  they  are  neces- 
sary; and  if  thev  cannot  be  made  interesting  they 
can  at  least  be  made  unobtrusive.  To  begin  a  story 
thus  is  to  make  a  false  start  that  may  prove  fatal : 

This  happy  family  consisted  of  six ;  a  father,  mother, 
two  sons,  and  two  daughters.  Clara,  the  eldest,  had 

133 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

completed  a  course  at  college,  and  during  the  past  few 
months  had  been  completing  one  in  cooking,  guided  and 
instructed  by  her  mother.  Bessie,  the  youngest,  was 
five  years  old.  She  sat  rocking  Amanda,  her  new  doll, 
and  was  asking  her  all  manner  of  questions.  John  and 
Henry,  aged  respectively  ten  and  fourteen  years,  were 
helping  their  father. 

Grandma  and  grandpa  were  expected  to  dinner ;  also 
Mr.  Draco,  or  "  Harry,"  as  every  one  called  him.  He 
was  a  friend  of  the  family's,  and  Clara's  lover. 

Note  how  Hawthorne  handles  a  very  similar  fam- 
ily group  in  the  initial  paragraph  of  "  The  Ambi- 
tious Guest."  He  inserts  his  details  without  ap- 
parent effort;  and  yet  he  makes  the  persons  individ- 
ual and  distinct.  He  does  not  say: 

This  family  was  happy,  and  comprised  father,  mother, 
grandmother,  daughter  of  seventeen,  and  younger 
children. 

but: 

The  faces  of  the  father  and  mother  had  a  sober  glad- 
ness; the  children  laughed.  The  eldest  daughter  was 
the  image  of  Happiness  at  seventeen,  and  the  aged 
grandmother,  who  was  knitting  in  the  warmest  place, 
was  the  image  of  Happiness  grown  old. 

Sometimes,  in  stories  which  consist  largely  of  con- 
versation, as  so  manv  of  our  modern  stories  do, 
the  author  never  directly  states  the  situation  to  the 

'34 


THE  BEGINNING 

reader:  it  is  made  sufficiently  plain  either  directly, 
in  the  conversation  itself,  or  indirectly  in  the  neces- 
sary comments  and  descriptions.  Or  it  may  be  pre- 
sented as  a  retrospect  indulged  in  by  one  of  the  char- 
acters. On  the  stage  this  takes  the  form  of  a  solil- 
oquy ;  but  since  few  men  in  their  right  minds  really 
think  aloud,  in  the  short  story  it  is  better  for  the 
author  to  imagine  such  thoughts  running  through 
the  mind  of  the  character,  and  to  reproduce  them  as 
indirect  discourse.  We  are  so  used  to  consider 
tWe~aufhor  as  omniscient  that  we  experience  no 
surprise  or  incredulity  at  such  mind-reading. 
Such  stories  approach  very  nearly  to  the  pure 
Dramatic  Form.  These  are  at  once  the  most 
natural  and  the  most  artistic  methods  of  introduc- 
ing essential  facts,  and  they  are  methods  which 
can  be  advantageously  employed  to  some  extent  in 
almost  any  story.  'With  this  method  in  mind  read 
carefully  any  one  of  Hope's  "  Dolly  Dialogue " 
stories  and  note  how  cleverly  the  facts  are  presented 
through  the  words  and  actions  of  the  characters: 

In  the  novel  essential  details  are  frequently  held 
in  suspense  for  some  time,  in  order  that  the  opening 
pages  may  be  made  attractive  by  the  introduction 
of  smart  conversation  or  rapid  action.  A  similar 

US 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

method  is  often  followed  in  the  short  story,  and  it 
cannot  be  condemned  offhand,  for  if  used  skillfully 
it  is  a  clever  and  legitimate  device  for  immediately 
fixing  the  reader's  attention;  but  it  holds  danger  for 
the  uninitiated,  for  the  amateur  is  liable  to  postpone 
the  introduction  of  the  details  until  the  story  is  hope- 
lessly obscure,  or  until  he  is  reduced  to  dragging  in 
those  essential  facts  in  the  baldest  manner.  Even 
if  he  is  otherwise  successful,  he  -runs  the  risk  of 
destroying  the  proportion  of  his  story  by  practically 
beginning  it  in  the  middle  and  endeavoring  to  go 
both  ways  at  once.  The  conventions  of  the  short 
story  allow  of  little  space  for  the  retrospection  neces- 
sary to  such  an  introduction;  and  when  the  writer 
begins  to  say,  "  But  first  let  me  explain  how  all  this 
came  about,"  the  reader  begins  to  yawn,  and  the 
charm  of  the  opening  sentences  is  forgotten  in  the 
dreariness  of  the  ensuing  explanations.  This 
method  is  of  the  modern  school  of  short  story  writ- 
ers, but  Hawthorne,  in  "  The  Prophetic  Pictures," 
gives  us  an  excellent  example  of  how  it  may  be 
used  to  advantage;  and  the  following  well  il- 
lustrates the  absurd  lengths  to  which  it  may  be  car- 
ried, and  the  desperate  means  to  which  the  writer 


136 


THE  BEGINNING 

must  then  resort  to  patch  up  the  broken  thread  of 
the  narrative : 

Joseph  Johnson  was  a  young  man  whose  name  ap- 
peared in  the  list  of  the  dead  heroes  who  had  fallen  at 
Santiago. 

When  Mamie  Williams  read  the  startling  fact,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  past  history  was  unfolding  it- 
self in  her  mind,  presenting  one  event  after  another. 
She  thought  about  their  early  love,  how  she  had  clasped 
his  hand  and  how  his  lips  lingered  long  upon  hers  when 
last  they  parted  before  he  started  to  the  cruel  war. 

With  a  wounded  heart  and  tear-stained  eyes,  she  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  many 
reflections  of  the  past  chased  each  other  through  her 
mind. 

She  tried  to  console  herself  and  smooth  out  the 
wrinkles  in  her  troubled  mind  with  the  thought  that 
God  knows  and  does  all  things  well.  She  was  an  In- 
telligent girl,  and  reasoned  farther  with  herself,  "  As 
all  hope  for  Joseph  has  fled,  I  ought  to  marry  some 
one  else,  and  make  most  of  what  I  have.  There  is 
Thomas  Malloy,  who  loves  me  almost  as  well;  how- 
ever, my  affection  for  him  is  not  very  great,  but  I  think 
I  shall  unite  my  life  with  his,  and  do  my  best  to  make 
myself  and  the  world  around  me  happy." 

Her  mind,  moved  by  an  emotion  of  a  noble  heart, 
caused  her  to  make  the  last  remark. 

Soon  they  were  married,  but  there  was  no  happiness 


'37 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

in  life  for  her ;  for  the  one  she  lived  for  was  gone,  and 
had  carried  off  her  affection  with  him. 

Returning  to  the  war  we  find  that  Joseph  was  not 
killed  in  the  battle  but  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  enemy. 

There  is  a  questionable  sort  of  beginning,  which 
might  be  called  dilatory,  that  consists  in  carrying  the 
literary  aspect  of  the  essential  facts  to  the  extreme, 
and  making  them  occupy  a  deal  more  valuable  space 
than  is  rightly  theirs.  This  is  generally  the  method 
of  a  past  school  of  short  story  writers,  or  of  the 
writers  of  to-day  who  are  not  yet  well  versed  in  the 
technique  of  their  art.  Of  this  class  Washington 
Irving  is  a  great  example.  In  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  " 
and  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  "  he  devotes 
to  the  introduction  almost  as  much  space  as  a  writer 
to-day  would  give  to  the  whole  tale.  He  is  so  skill- 
ful in  gently  urging  the  narrative  along,  while  he 
introduces  new  essentials  and  interpolates  literary 
but  non-essential  matter,  that  in  neither  story  can 
one  exactly  fix  the  bounds  of  the  beginning;  but  in 
each  a  modern  story  teller  would  combine  the  first 
ten  paragraphs  into  one  introductory  paragraph.  I 
do  not  mean  to  say  that  this  is  a  {ault  in  Irving :  if 
it  is  a  fault  at  all  it  belongs  to  his  time;  then,  too, 
these  tales  were  supposed  to  be  written  by  the  gar- 

138 


THE  BEGINNING 

rulous  antiquarian,  Diedrich  Knickerbocker;  but 
their  discursive  style  is  not  in  vogue  to-day,  and  is 
therefore  to  be  avoided. 

As  an  awful  example  of  the  extent  to  which  this 
dilly-dallying  may  be  carried,  let  me  introduce  the 
following : 

The  train  rolled  onward  with  a  speed  of  twenty-five 
miles  an  hour,  the  great  iron  engine  puffing  and  screech- 
ing as  if  its  very  sides  would  burst.  In  the  rear  car  of 
the  six  coaches  which  seemed  to  follow  the  monstrous 
iron  horse  with  dizzy  speed,  sat  an  aged  man  holding  a 
pretty  child  of  four  summers,  who  was  fast  asleep.  The 
grandfather  gazed  on  the  sleeping  face  and  deeply 
sighed.  His  thoughts  returned  to  the  long  ago  when 
his  only  child  was  the  same  age  as  the  little  one  he  held 
so  fondly  clasped  in  his  dear  old  arms.  He  thought 
how  years  ago  he  had  held  his  own  darling  thus ;  how 
happy  and  bright  his  home  had  been  in  those  sweet  by- 
gone days.  He  recalled  how  she  had  been  reared  in  a 
home  of  plenty,  how  she  had  everything  which  con- 
stitutes the  happiness  of  a  young  girl. 

The  Story. 

The  time  was  a  warm  summer  evening  in  August, 
the  place  one  of  those  quiet  little  towns  west  of  the  great 
Mississippi,  and  the  scene  opens  in  a  neat  little  parlor 
where  a  number  of  young  folks  had  gathered  to  tender 
a  fitting  reception  to  a  newly  married  couple.  A  few 
days  previous  a  stranger  had  arrived  in  the  town  to 

'39 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

visit  some  former  friends;  these  friends  attended  the 
reception  and  were  accompanied  by  their  guest.  The 
stranger  was  formally  introduced  to  the  crowd  of 
merry-makers  as  Elmer  Charleston.  He  was  a  tall, 
splendidly  formed,  intelligent  looking  young  man. 
Among  the  young  women  present  was  one  Jennie  Shelby, 
who  was  but  little  more  than  twenty ;  she  was  a  blonde, 
of  graceful  figure,  with  a  peculiarly  animated  expres- 
sion of  countenance.  Her  complexion  was  beautiful,  her 
dimples  deep  and  mischievous,  her  large  blue  eyes  full 
of  latent  fire,  and  her  features  would  pass  muster 
among  sculptors.  Suitors  had  she  by  the  score.  At 
last  she  had  met  her  fate.  Elmer  Charleston  accepted 
a  position  in  the  town  and  at  once  began  to  court  the 
only  daughter  of  Squire  Shelby. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  any  writer,  however 
inexperienced,  should  begin  his  narrative  in  this 
fashion.  The  introductory  paragraph  is  of  course 
entirely  unnecessary — even  the  author  had  some  ink- 
ling of  that  fact,  for  he  takes  pains  to  specify  when 
"the  story"  proper  actually  begins;  but  even  after 
he  is  supposed  to  be  in  the  midst  of  his  narration,  he 
stops  to  give  us  wholly  gratuitous  information  con- 
cerning the  time  of  day,  the  state  of  the  weather,  and 
the  occasion  when  Elmer  Charleston  first  met  Jen- 
nie Shelby — all  of  which  was  apparently  introduced 
for  the  purpose  of  discouraging  further  interest:  at 
least,  that  is  what  it  certainly  accomplishes. 

140 


THE  BEGINNING 

The  short  story  has  no  space  for  the  "  glittering 
generalities  "  with  which  young  writers  delight  to 
preface  their  work.  A  tale  which  requires  a  page 
or  even  a  paragraph  to  elucidate  its  relation  to  life 
and  things  in  general  is  seldom  worth  the  perusal, 
much  less  the  writing.  These  introductory  re- 
marks are  usually  in  the  nature  of  a  moral,  or  a  bit 
of  philosophizing;  but  if  the  story  has  any  point  it 
will  be  evident  in  the  narrative  itself,  and  no  pre- 
liminary explanation  will  atone  for  later  neglect  to 
make  it  of  human  interest.  There  is  no  good  reason, 
unless  it  be  the  perversity  of  human  nature,  why  you 
should  begin  a  story  by  making  trite  remarks  about 
things  in  general,  as  this  writer  did: 

Love  is  a  very  small  word,  but  the  feeling  that  it  ex- 
presses bears  the  richest  and  choicest  fruit  of  any  vine 
that  curls  its  clinging  tendrils  around  the  human  heart. 
And  a  bosom  without  it  is  a  bosom  without  warmth; 
a  life  without  it  is  like  a  honeysuckle  without  its  nec- 
tar; a  heart  that  has  never  felt  its  sweet  emotions  is 
like  a  rosebud  that  has  never  unfolded.  But  in  some 
people  it  remains  latent  for  a  number  of  years,  like  an 
apple  which  remains  green  and  hard  for  a  time,  but 
suddenly  ripens  into  softness,  so  when  love  flashes  into 
the  human  breast,  the  once  hard  heart  is  changed  into 
mellowness. 

Mary  Green  was  just  such  a  character  as  the  one 

last  described,  etc. 

141 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

It  would  be  wrong,  however,  to  say  that  the  pref- 
atory introduction  is  the  sign  of  a  poor  story,  for 
many  good  writers  produce  such  stories,  and  many 
critical  editors  accept  and  publish  them.  A  large 
majority  of  Poe's  tales  begins  so;  yet  in  nearly  ev- 
ery case  the  beginning  could  have  been  cut  and  the 
story  improved.  Kipling,  too,  has  a  liking  for  this 
method  of  beginning;  usually  he  states  his  abstract 
idea,  as  a  preacher  announces  his  text,  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  make  the  practical  application.  With  these 
masters  the  transition  from  the  general  to  the  spe- 
cific is  usually  easy  and  gradual,  but  in  the  follow- 
ing example  from  Kipling's  "  On  the  Strength  of  a 
Likeness  "  the  line  of  demarcation  is  well  defined : 

Next  to  a  requited  attachment,  one  of  the  most  con- 
venient things  that  a  young  man  can  carry  about  with 
him  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  is  an  unrequited  at- 
tachment. It  makes  him  feel  important  and  business- 
like, and  blase,  and  cynical;  and  whenever  he  has  a 
touch  of  liver,  or  suffers  from  want  of  exercise,  he  can 
mourn  over  his  lost  love,  and  be  very  happy  in  a  tender, 
twilight  fashion. 

Hannasyde's  affair  of  the  heart  had  been  a  godsend 
to  him.  It  was  four  years  old,  etc. 

There  is  no  real  abruptness  here,  and  the  author's 
observations  are  apt  and  sound;  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  they  are  not  essential  and  so  a  strict 

143 


THE  BEGINNING 

observance  of  conventions  requires  their  elimina- 
tion. 

"  The  background  of  a  story  should  always  be 
the  last  thing  to  be  chosen,  but  it  is  the  first  thing 
to  consider  when  one  comes  to  actual  writing  out.  A 
story  is  much  like  a  painting.  ...  In  story  writ- 
ing it  appears  to  be  simple  portraits  that  need  least 
background."  *(  Scenes  may  play  an  important  part 
in  a  story  by  influencing  the  actors  or  by  offering 
a  contrast  to  the  events;  in  such  cases  they  must  be 
made  specific,  but  rather  after  the  broad  free  man- 
ner of  the  impressionist.)  The  employment  of  the 

S  *  "^ 

contrast  or  harmonv  of  man  and  nature  is  one  of 
the  oldest  devices  of  story  telling,  but  also  one  of 
the  most  artistic  and  effective.  It  is  not  an  artifi- 
cial device,  though  it  occasionally  appears  so  from 
its  misuse:  it  is  a  fact  that  all  of  us  must  have  ex- 
perienced in  some  degree,  for  we  are  all,  though  often 
unconsciously,  influenced  by  the  weather  or  by  our 
environments;  and  though  our  emotions  may  be  so 
intense  as  to  counteract  that  influence,  we  are  suf- 
ficiently self-centered  to  think  it  strange  that  all  na- 
ture should  not  be  in  harmony  with  us. 


*"How    to    Write    Fiction."     Published    anonymously   by 
Bellaires  &  Co.,  London.    Part  I,  Chapter  VII. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

You  should,  however,  take  care  that  the  scene  is 
important  before  you  attempt  to  present  it.  Unless 
it  does  influence  the  action  of  the  story  or  is  neces- 
sary for  the  understanding  of  what  is  to  come  it  has 
no  place  in  the  narrative,  no  matter  how  great  may 
be  its  beauties  or  how  artistic  your  description  of 
them.  Above  all  things,  never  clutter  your  story 
with  commonplaces  and  details  which  would  serve  to 
picture  any  one  of  a  hundred  different  places. 
"  When  a  tale  begins,  '  The  golden  orb  of  day  was 
slowly  sinking  among  the  hills,  shedding  an  effulgent 
glory  over  the  distant  landscape,'  the  discerning 
reader,  whether  official  or  volunteer,  is  apt  to 
pause  right  there.  He  knows  exactly  what  happens 
when  the  orb  of  day  finds  it  time  to  disappear,  and 
he  does  not  care  for  your  fine  language  unless  it 
conveys  a  fact  or  an  idea  worth  noting."  * 

The  best  method  of  procedure  is  to  suggest  the 
scene,  as  you  do  the  character,!  by  the  few  specific 
features  which  distinguish  it  from  other  similar 
scenes,  and  to  permit  the  reader's  imagination  to  fill 
in  the  details.^  Hawthorne  gives  a  very  distinct  idea 
of  the  setting  of  "  The  Ambitious  Guest;  "  and  yet, 

*  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
erick M.  Bird.     Lippincott's.    Nov.,  '94. 
t  See  Chapter  VI. 

144 


THE  BEGINNING 

from  his  description  alone,  no  two  persons  would 
draw  the  same  picture.  It  suffices  that  they  would 
all  possess  the  essential  elements  of  loneliness,  bleak- 
ness and  haunting:  terror.  At  the  same  time  he 
effects  a  sharp  contrast  between  the  wildness  and  dis- 
comforts of  the  night  and  the  peace  and  cheer  of 
the  tavern. 

In  locating  the  story  it  is  absurdly  shiftless  to  des- 
ignate the  place  by  a  dash  or  a  single  letter,  or  a 
combination  of  the  two.  One  of  your  first  objects 
is  to  make  your  story  vivid,  and  you  will  not  further 
that  end  by  the  use  of  impossible  or  indefinite  sub- 
stitutes for  names.  If  you  are  relating  a  true  story 
and  desire  to  disguise  it,  adopt  or  invent  some  appel- 
lation different  enough  to  avoid  detection;  but  never 
be  so  foolish  as  to  say : 

The  story  I  am   about  to   relate   occurred  to   my 

friend  X.,  in  the  little  village  of  Z .  during1  the 

latter  part  of  the  year  18 — . 

It  would  be  just  as  sensible  to  go  through  the  rest 
of  the  story  and  substitute  blanks  or  hieroglyphics 
for  the  important  words.  Specificness  in  minor  de- 
tails is  a  great  aid  to  vividness,  and  you  cannot  af- 
ford to  miss  that  desirable  quality  through  sheer 
laziness. 

'45 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

The  safest  way  to  begin  a  story  is  to  begin  at  the 
beginning,  state  the  necessary  facts  as  succinctly  as 
possible,  and  lead  the  reader  into  the  quick  of  the 
action  before  he  has  had  time  to  become  weary.  For 
it  must  be  remembered  that  the  object  of  the  short 
story  is  always  to  amuse,  and  that  even  in  the  intro- 
ductory paragraphs  the  reader  must  be  interested. 
If  he  is  not  he  will  very  likely  cast  the  story  aside 
as  dry  and  dull;  if  he  does  read  it  through  he  will  be 
prejudiced  at  the  outset,  so  that  the  result  will  be 
about  the  same. 

In  "  The  Ambitious  Guest "  the  introduction  oc- 
cupies 1"  i-4>  or  one-eleventh  of  the  entire  story, 
measured  by  paragraphs.  In  that  space  Hawthorne 
locates  the  scene,  introduces  and  individualizes  the 
characters,  determines  the  atmosphere  of  the  tale, 
and  recounts  the  necessary  preliminaries;  and  all 
this  he  does  in  the  easiest  way,  while  skillfully  lead- 
ing up  to  the  story  proper.  A  writer  of  to-day 
would  probably  condense  these  four  paragraphs  into 
one,  without  neglecting  any  essentials ;  but  he  would 
hardly  attain  the  literary  finish  of  Hawthorne's 
work. 

To  prove  further  that  the  beginning  of  a  story 
does  influence  its  success,  I  would  ask  you  to  con- 

146 


THE  BEGINNING 

sider  the  following,  which  is  typical  of  the  style  of 
introduction  most  affected  by  the  novice: 

It  was  a  bright,  crisp,  twilight  evening,  and  two 
young  girls  sat  together  in  a  richly  furnished  parlor  of 
a  splendid  country  house. 

One,  tall  and  slender,  with  a  richly  moulded  figure ; 
handsome  brunette  features,  and  raven  tresses — Edith 
Laingsford,  the  daughter  of  the  house ;  the  other,  a  girl 
of  medium  height,  with  a  figure  perfectly  rounded,  ard 
a  fair  Grecian  face. 

Her  eyes  were  of  a  soft  gray,  and  her  hair  a  waving 
chestnut.  She  was  Marion  Leland,  a  dependent  cousin 
of  Miss  Laingsford's. 

Now,  frankly,  do  vou  care  to  read  further?  Surely 
there  is  nothing  in  the  glimpse  of  the  plot  here  pre- 
sented that  encourages  you  to  hope  that  the  tale  may 
improve  upon  further  perusal.  From  these  three 
paragraphs  you  can  construct  the  whole  story:  you 
know  that  the  "  dependent  cousin "  and  the  girl 
with  the  "  handsome  brunette  features"  will  be  ri- 
vals for  the  affections  of  some  "  nice  young  man  "  of 
corresponding  conventionality,  and  that  the  poor  re- 
lation will  finally  win  him — chiefly  because  it  always 
happens  so  in  stories  and 'seldom  in  real  life.  And 
you  know  from  these  specimen  paragraphs  that  there 
will  be  nothing  in  the  handling  of  this  poor  old  hack- 
neyed plot  that  will  repay  its  perusal.  Of  course 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

there  is  always  a  chance  that  you  may  be  mistaken 
in  your  surmises;  but  the  chance  is  too  slight,  and 
you  cast  the  story  aside  with  a  yawn,  even  as  the 
editor  would  do.  See  to  it,  then,  that  your  own 
stories  do  not  deserve  like  treatment. 


148 


IX 
THE  STORY  PROPER 

THE  correct  short  story  possesses  unity  of  form  as    I 
well  as  unity  of  plot.     In  the  novel  there  may  be  wide 
gaps  of  time  and  scene  between  adjacent  chapters; 
but  the  short  story  allows  of  no    such    chasms   of 
thought,  much  less  of  chapters.     Parts  or  chapters 
in  a  short  story  are  uncanonical.     A    short    story  I 
is  essentially  a  unit,  and  the  necessity  of  divisions  ' 
indicates  the  use  of  a  plot  that  belongs  to  some  larger 
form  of  literature;   but  the  indicated  "parts"  or 
"  chapters "    may    be    false    divisions    introduced 
through  the  influence  of  the    conventions    of    the 
novel. 

The  various  divisional  signs  to  be  avoided  are  the 
separate  entries  or  letters  of  the  diary  or  epistolary 
forms,  the  introduction  of  stars  or  blank  spaces  to 
indicate  a  hiatus,  and  the  division  of  the  narrative 
into  parts  or  chapters]  The  evils  of  the  diary  and 
epistolary  forms  have  already  been  discussed  and 
need  no  further  comment.  The  use  of  stars  or 

149 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

spaces  either  is  due  to  an  improper  plot,  or  is  en- 
tirely unnecessary.  In  the  first  instance  the  fault 
is  radical,  and  the  only  remedy  is  complete  recon- 
struction; in  the  second  case  the  difficulty  resolves 
itself  into  an  ignorance  or  a  disregard  of  rhetorical 
conventions.  Often  the  story  is  deliberately  divided 
and  forced  to  appear  in  several  chapters  when  its 
plot  and  treatment  make  its  unity  very  evident;  and 
solely  because  the  amateur  has  an  idea,  caught  from 
his  novel  reading,  that  such  divisions  are  essential 
to  a  well  told  story.  They  are  not  necessary  to  many 
novels,  though  they  may  be  convenient;  and  they 
have  no  place  in  the  scheme  of  the  short  story. 
There  are  stories,  "  short "  at  least  in  length,  in 
which  divisions  are  necessary  to  indicate  breaks 
which  do  not  seriously  interrupt  the  coherency  of  the 
narrative;  they  may  be  readable  stories,  but  they  can 
never  be  models. 

The  ideal  short  story,  from  the  point  of  unity,  is 
one  which  requires  the  passage  of  the  least  time  and 
presents  the  fewest  separate  incidents.  It  is  the  re- 
lation of  a  single  isolated  incident,  which  occupies 
only  the  time  required  to  tell  it.  "  The  Ambitious 
Guest  "  impresses  the  reader  as  a  single  incident  and 
would  seem  to  approach  this  perfection,  but  a  care- 

150 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

ful  analysis  of  it  resolves  it  into  a  number  of  minor 
incidents,  so  closely  related  and  connected  that  at 
first  glance  they  appear  to  form  a  perfect  whole. 
The  component  incidents  of  the  body  of  "  The  Ambi- 
tious Guest"  (1"  5-39)  are: 

1"  5-7.     The  stranger  praises  the  fire  and  reveals  his 
destination. 

1"  8,  9.     A  stone  rolls  down  the  mountain  side. 
(Lapse  of  time  indicated  here.) 

Tf  10,  ii.     The  characters  are  described,  as  they  reveal 
themselves  through  their  conversation. 

T  12-23.     They  converse  rather  frankly  of  their  sev- 
eral ambitions. 

^[  24-27.     A  wagon  stops  before  the  inn,  but  goes  on 
when  the  landlord  does  not  immediately  appear. 

^[  28-31.     A  touch  of  sentimental  byplay  between  the 
stranger  and  the  maid. 

^[  32.     A  sadness  creeps  over  the  company,  caused, 
perhaps,  by  the  wind  wailing  without. 

T  33-39.     The  grandmother  discusses  her  death  and 
burial. 

None  of  these  incidents,  except  those  containing  the 
rolling  stone  and  the  passing  travelers,  possess  suffi- 
cient action  or  identity  to  be  called  an  incident,  ex- 
cept for  some  such  analytical  purpose.  They  are 
rather  changes  in  the  subject  under  discussion  than 
separate  happenings.  With  the  exception  already 
noted,  it  may  be  said  that  there  is  no  time  gap  be- 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

tween  these  incidents,  for  each  one  begins  at  the  ex- 
piration of  its  predecessor.  The  connection  and  re- 
lation of  the  sub-incidents  is  not  always  as  close  as 
this.  In  a  longer  story  they  could  be  more  distinct 
and  definite  and  yet  preserve  the  unity  of  the  work; 
but  they  should  never  disintegrate  into  minor  cli- 
maxes,* nor  into  such  a  jerky  succession  of  disas- 
sociated scenes  as  the  following: 

On  a  fair  sweet  spring  morning  in  the  lovely  month 
of  May,  Squire  Darley  finishes  an  important  letter.  He 
reads  it  over  the  second  time  to  see  that  there  is  no  mis- 
take. 

"  There,  that'll  do,  I  think,"  he  soliloquizes.  "  And 
that'll  fetch  him,  I  think.  Peculiar  diseases  require 
peculiar  remedies."  And  he  chuckled  to  himself.  Then 
with  deliberate  care  he  addressed  it  to  "  Mr.  H.  C.  Dar- 
ley, New  York  City." 

A  few  words  to  my  reader,  and  we  will  then  follow 
this  important  letter.  Five  years  before  the  time  of 
which  we  write,  Abner  Vanclief,  a  poor  but  honorable 
gentleman,  had  died,  leaving  his  motherless  daughter 
to  the  sole  care  of  his  lifelong  friend,  Horace  Darley, 
a  wealthy  country  gentleman,  a  widower,  with  only 
one  son. 

Squire  Darley  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do 
with  this,  his  new  charge.  He  did  not  think  it  fit  and 
proper  to  take  her  to  Darley  Dale,  with  only  himself  and 

*  See  Chapter  X. 

'5* 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

servants  as  companions.  Then,  too,  she  was  sadly  in 
need  of  schooling. 

At  last  after  much  worry  on  his  part,  it  was  satisfac- 
torily arranged  between  himself  and  a  maiden  sister, 
that  resided  in  Albany,  that  Violet  was  to  remain  with 
her,  attend  the  best  college,  pay  strict  attention  to  her 
studies  and  music,  and  when  her  education  should  be 
completed,  she,  if  she  wished,  was  to  make  Darley  Dale 
her  future  home. 

Four  years  passed  swiftly  by,  and  then  "  Dear  Aunt 
Molly,"  as  Violet  had  learned  to  call  her,  w^s  taken 
violently  ill;  and  before  her  brother  came  her  sweet 
spirit  had  flown  away  and  poor  Violet  was  again  alone. 
But  after  she  became  fairly  installed  as  mistress  at  Dar- 
ley Dale,  she  soon  learned  to  love  the  place  and  also  to 
love  the  dear  old  man  that  had  been  to  her  so  staunch 
a  friend. 

As  for  his  son  Harley,  she  had  heard  his  praises  sung 
from  morning  until  night.  She  had  never  seen  him, 
for  at  the  time  of  her  father's  death  he  was  attending 
college,  and  before  she  returned  to  Darley  Dale  he  had 
hied  himself  off  to  New  York  City,  there  to  open  a  law 
office  and  declare  that  his  future  home. 

Many  times  the  Squire  had  written  him  beseeching 
him  to  return,  but  always  met  with  a  courteous  re- 
fusal. 

When  Violet  had  been  at  Darley  Dale  a  year  she  was 
surprised  beyond  measure  by  an  offer  of  marriage  from 
Squire  Darley. 

He  had  enlarged  upon  the  fact  that  his  son  was  a 
most  obstinate  young  man,  that  he  himself  was  growing 

'53 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

old,  and  that  he  wished  to  see  her  well  cared  for  before 
he  died. 

She  had  assured  him  that  she  could  work,  and  that 
she  was  willing  to  work  when  the  time  came,  but  the  old 
Squire  proved  himself  to  be  as  obstinate  as  his  wilful 
son.  And  at  last  Violet,  with  a  white  drawn  face,  and 
dark  frightened  eyes,  consented  to  become  his  wife  at 
some  future  time. 

And  the  letter  addressed  to  Mr.  H.  C.  Darley  con- 
tained the  announcement  of  the  engagement  of  Squire 
Horace  to  Miss  Violet  Vanclief. 

It  is  seldom  that  even  a  model  short  story  plot  will 
be  a  perfect  unit,  for  in  the  story,  as  in  the  life  which 
it  pictures,  some  slight  change  of  scene  and  some 
little  passage  of  time  are  inevitable.  Thus  in  any 
short  story  there  is  usually  a  slight  hiatus  of  thought, 
due  to  these  causes,  which  must  be  bridged  over. 
The  tyro  will  span  the  chasm  by  means  of  stars  or 
some  such  arbitrary  signs,  but  the  master  will  calmly 
ignore  such  gaps  and  preserve  the  unity  of  his  nar- 
rative so  deftly  that  even  the  lines  of  the  dovetailing 
will  be  scarcely  visible.  Thus  in  "  The  Ambitious 
Guest "  (1^9,  10)  Hawthorne  had  need  to  indi- 
cate the  passage  of  some  little  time,  during  which 
the  guest  had  his  supper;  but  the  breach  is  passed 
in  so  matter-of-fact  a  manner  that  there  is  no  jolt, 
and  yet  the  sense  of  time  is  secured : 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

Let  us  now  suppose  the  stranger  to  have  finished  his 
supper  of  bear's  meat,  and  by  his  natural  felicity  of 
manner  to  have  placed  himself  on  a  footing  of  kindness 
with  the  whole  family;  so  that  they  talked  as  freely 
together  as  if  he  belonged  to  their  mountain-brood. 

When  the  plot  comprises  a  series  of  closely  related 
episodes  the  story  should  be  located  in  the  time  of 
the  most  important  one,  and  all  necessary  prelimi- 
nary matter  should  be  introduced  as  briefly  and 
casually  as  possible  in  one  of  the  several  ways  al- 
ready given.*  Indeed,  the  whole  difficulty  is  usu- 
ally due  to  a  poor  beginning,  and  properly  belongs  to 
the  preceding  chapter. 

Next  to  the  use  of  divisions  comes  the  error,  also 
caught  from  the  novel,  of  making  the  short  story  a 
carryall  for  divers  bits  of  wisdom,  moralizing,  de- 
scription, and  literary  small  talk,  which  have  no  part 
in  the  narrative,  but  which  the  clever  and  self-ap- 
preciative author  has  not  the  heart  to  withhold  from 
the  public.  The  art  of  omission  is  an  important  -^ 
branch  of  the  art  of  authorship.  It  is  seldom  neces- 
sary to  tell  the  novice  what  to  put  in;  but  it  is  fre- 
quently necessary  to  tell  him — and  oh!  so  hard  to 
persuade  him! — that  to  introduce  an  irrelevant  idea 


*  See  Chapter  VIII    for  the  best  methods  of  introducing 
foundation  facts. 

155 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

is  worse  than  to  omit  a  necessary  detail.  The  young 
writer  must  learn  early  and  learn  once  for  all  the  ab- 
solute necessity  for  the  exclusion  of  non-essentials. 
Selection  of  details  plays  an  important  part  in  any 
literary  work,  but  in  the  short  story  extreme  care  is 
indispensable,  for  the  short  story  has  too  little  space 
to  sacrifice  any  to  pretty  but  useless  phrases.  Such 
irrelevant  matter  is  usually  called  "  padding,"  and  its 
presence  is  a  serious  detriment  to  the  success  of  any 
story,  however  clever  in  conception. 

One  of  the  chief  causes  of  padding  is  the  desire  for 
"  local  color  " — a  term  by  which  we  characterize 
those  details  which  are  introduced  to  make  a  story 
seem  to  smack  of  the  soil.  These  details  must  be 
eminently  local  and  characteristic — possible  of  ap- 
plication to  only  the  small  community  to  which  they 
are  ascribed — or  they  are  mere  padding.  The  need 
of  local  color  depends  much  upon  the  character  of 
the  story:  it  varies  from  a  doubtful  addition  to  the 
story  of  ingenuity  or  adventure,  to  a  necessary  part 
of  the  story  portraying  human  life  and  character. 
"  Without  blindly  indulging  in  local  color  one  must 
be  accurate  in  indicating  facts.  A  work  of  art  must 
not  be  crowded  with  so-called  local  color,  but  cer- 
tain facts  must  be  known  and  used  to  give  the  ef- 

156 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

feet  of  a  true  relation The  atmosphere,  the 

feeling  and  idiosyncrasy — a  word  or  a  phrase  which 
reveals  character — are  the  only  true  local  color,  not 
passing  phrases  of  unkempt  speech."  *  The  stories 
of  Miss  Wilkins,  Octave  Thanet,  Bret  Harte,  and 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  are  full  of  excellent  examples 
of  local  color. 

Every  perfect  short  story  will  contain  a  strong 
argument  for  good,  through  its  subtle  exposition  of 
the  earning  of  the  "  wages  of  sin,"  but  any  attempt 
to  make  it  a  medium  for  the  spreading  of  ethical 
and  spiritual  truths  will  entail  ridicule  upon  the 
writer  and  failure  upon  his  work.  The  only  legi- 
timate purpose  of  the  short  story  is  to  amuse,  and 
didacticism  in  literature  is  always  inartistic. 
"  Novels  with  a  purpose  "  may  find  publishers  and 
readers;  but  no  one,  except  the  author,  cares  for 
"  polemic  stories — such  as  set  forth  the  wickedness 
of  Free  Trade  or  of  Protection,  the  Wrongs  of  La- 
bor and  the  Rights  of  Capital,  the  advantages  of  one 
sect  over  another,  the  beauties  of  Deism,  Agnosti- 
cism, and  other  unestablished  tenets Genius 

will  triumph  over  most  obstacles,  and  art  can  sugar- 

*  "  The  Art  of  Fiction."  A  lecture  by  Gilbert  Parker.  Tht 
Critic.  Dec.,  '98. 

157 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

coat  an  unwelcome  pill;  but  in  nineteen  cases  out  of 
twenty  the  story  which  covers  an  apology  for  one 
doctrine  or  an  attack  upon  the  other  has  no  more 
chance  than  if  it  were  made  up  of  offensive  per- 
sonalities." *  "  Though  ordinary  dramatic  short 
stories  do  not  have  a  moral  which  shows  itself,  still 
under  the  surface  in  every  story  is  something  which 
corresponds  to  the  moral,  and  which  we  shall  call 
the  soul  of  the  story."  \  The  short  story  cannot 
properly  be  a  mere  sermon,  such  as  are  so  often 
penned  under  the  caption  of  "  The  Drunkard's 
Wife,"  "  The  Orphan's  Prayer,"  "  The  Wages  of 
Sin,"  and  other  similar  titles.  It  must  teach  its 
moral  lesson  in  its  own  way — its  artistic  presen- 
tation of  the  great  contrast  between  the  sort  of  men 
who  work  deeds  of  nobility  and  of  shame.  If  it 
be  saddled  with  didacticism  or  tailed  with  a  moral, 
it  ceases  to  be  a  storv  and  becomes  an  argument; 
when  it  no  longer  concerns  us. 

Indirectly,  and  perhaps  unintentionally,  the  short 
story  is  a  great  factor  for  good.  The  world  is  weary 
of  the  bald  sermons  of  the  Puritans,  and  of  their 


*  "  Magazine  Fiction  and  How  Not  to  Write  It,"  by  Fred- 
erick M.  Bird.  Lippincotfs.  Nov.,  '94. 

t  "How  to  Write  Fiction."  Published  anonymously  by 
Bellaires  &  Co.,  London.  Part  I,  Chapter  V. 

158 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

endeavor  to  "  point  a  tale  "  by  every  ordinary  oc- 
currence; it  is  rather  inclined  to  a  Pharisaical  self- 
righteousness;  and  needs  to  have  its  sins,  and  the 
practical  benefits  of  goodness,  cunningly  insinu- 
ated; but  it  can  never  fail  to  admire  and  strive  to 
emulate  the  noble  deeds  of  noble  men,  whether  crea- 
tures of  flesh  or  phantoms  of  the  brain.  To  be  sure, 
many  of  our  best  short  stories  deal  with  events  so 
slight  and  really  unimportant  that  they  might  be 
said  to  have  no  moral  influence;  yet,  if  they  simply 
provide  us  with  innocent  amusement  for  an  idle 
hour,  their  ethical  value  must  not  be  overlooked; 
and  when  they  do  involve  some  great  moral  ques- 
tion or  soul  crisis  their  influence  is  invariably  on  the 
right  side. 

The  point  is  that  religion  is  not  literature.  The 
mere  fact  that  the  heroine  of  a  story  is  a  poor  milk 
and  water  creature,  full  of  bald  platitudes  and  con- 
ventional righteousness,  does  not  make  that  narra- 
tive correct  or  readable ;  indeed,  it  is  very  apt  to  make 
it  neither,  for  the  platitudes  will  be  irrelevant  and 
the  righteousness  uninteresting.  When  this  old 
world  of  ours  becomes  really  moral  we  may  be  con- 
tent to  read  so-called  stories  in  which  goody-good 
characters  parade  their  own  virtues  and  interlard 

159 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

their  ordinary  speech  with  prayers  and  hymns  and 
scriptural  quotations;  but  while  a  tithe  of  the  present 
sin  and  crime  exists  our  fiction  will  reflect  them 
with  the  other  phases  of  our  daily  life. 

Now  by  this  I  do  not  at  all  mean  that  religion  has 
no  place  in  literature.  Such  a  ruling  would  not  only 
be  contrary  to  the  practice  of  our  best  writers,  but 
would  also  deprive  us  of  a  recognized  and  impor- 
tant element  in  human  life.  The  religious  influence 
is  one  of  the  most  powerful  to  which  man  is  sub- 
ject, and  as  it  plays  so  great  a  part  in  our  lives  it 
must  necessarily  figure  largely  in  our  stories.  But 
it  must  be  treated  there  because  of  the  manner  in 
which  it  influences  human  life  and  action,  and  not 
from  the  ethical  standpoint :  it  must  be  made  liter- 
jiture  and  not  religious  dogmatism.  That  it  can  be 
so  treated  and  yet  retain  the  full  strength  of  its 
power  for  good  is  best  illustrated  in  the  works  of 
Miss  Wilkins.  Nearly  every  one  of  her  stories  pos- 
sesses a  strong  element  of  New  England  Puritanism, 
but  there  is  no  attempt  to  preach  or  moralize. 
f  The  short  story  must  be  well  proportioned :  those 
parts  which  are  essential  differ  materially  in  their 
importance,  and  they  must  be  valued  and  handled  in 
accordance  with  their  influence  upon  the  plot.  No 

1 60 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

scene,  however  cleverly  done,  must  be  allowed  to 
monopolize  the  space  of  the  story,  except  in  so  far 
as  it  is  necessary  to  an  understanding  of  what  fol- 
lows; and  no  incident  which  furthers  the  plot,  how- 
ever trivial  or  ordinary  it  may  seem  to  you,  must 
be  slighted.  The  preservation  of  the  balance  of  the 
story  is  not  wholly  a  matter  of  the  number  of  words 
involved:  often  a  page  of  idle  chatter  by  the  char- 
acters makes  less  impression  on  the  reader  than  a 
single  terse  direct  sentence  by  the  author  himself; 
but  in  general  the  practice  is  to  value  the  various 
parts  of  the  story  by  the  word  space  accorded  them. 
This  rule  will  not,  however,  hold  good  in  the  case 
of  the  climax,  which  is  estimated  both  by  its  posi- 
tion and  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  worked  up  to. 
The  story  proper  is  really  only  the  preparation  for 
the  climax.  Most  stories  depend  for  their  interest 
upon  the  pleasure  with  which  we  follow  the  princi- 
pal characters  through  various  trying  episodes,  and 
the  great  desire  which  we  all  experience  to  know 
"  how  it  all  comes  out."  It  is  this  innate  sense, 
which  seems  to  be  a  phase  of  curiosity,  that  affords 
the  pleasure  that  the  average  reader  derives  from 
fiction.  One  seldom  stops  to  consider  how  a  story 
is  written,  but  judges  it  by  its  power  to  keep  him  ab- 

161 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

sorbed  in  the  fortunes  of  its  hero  and  heroine.     This 
is  the  element  of  suspense. 

However,  there  finally  comes  a  point  when  the 
suspense  cannot  be  longer  continued,  and  the  strained 
attention  of  the  reader  is  on  the  verge  of  collapsing 
into  indifference,  when  the  curiosity  must  be  grati- 
fied by  at  least  a  partial  revelation;  and  so  the  ele- 
ment of  surprise  enters.  (.Too  long  a  strain  on  the 
interest  is  invariably  fatal,  and  the  thing  is  to  know 
when  to  relieve  the  tension,./  Just  when  this  relief 
should  occur  depends  upon  the  plot  and  the  length 
of  the  story,  so  that  the  question  must  be  settled  sep- 
arately for  each  particular  case.  As  has  already 
been  said,  the  plot  of  a  short  story  should  not  be 
involved;  yet  it  may  be  permitted  some  degree  of 
complexity.  In  such  a  case  it  is  probable  that  there 
must  be  some  preliminary  relief  of  suspense  before 
the  final  relief  which  the  climax  offers.  However, 
because  of  the  usual  simplicity  of  the  plot,  the  length 
of  the  story  has  greater  influence  in  regulating  the 
relief  of  the  suspense.  In  a  story  of  3,000  words 
or  less  there  is  neither  room  nor  necessity  for  any 
preliminary  surprise,  and  the  most  effective  method 
is  to  withhold  all  hints  at  the  outcome  until  the  actual 
climax,  as  Hawthorne  did  in  "  The  Ambitious 

162 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

Guest."  But  when  the  story  approaches  or  exceeds 
10,000  words  it  is  probable  that  there  must  be  some 
lessening  of  the  tension  previous  to  the  climax,  as  in 
Henry  James'  "  The  Lesson  of  the  Master."  This 
story,  which  contains  25,000  word's,  is  divided  into 
six  parts,  each  representing  a  separate  scene  in  the 
progress  of  the  story;  and  yet,  so  skillful  is  James, 
there  is  no  hiatus  between  the  parts,  and  the  story 
as  a  whole  has  unity  of  impression.  At  the  end  of 
each  part  the  reader  has  made  a  definite  advance  to- 
ward the  point  of  the  story,  through  the  preliminary 
relief  of  suspense  afforded  by  that  part,  as  a  study 
of  this  brief  outline  will  show : 


At  the  end  Paul  Overt  first  sees  Henry  St.  George, 
and  the  reader  receives  a  definite  picture  of  the  great 
author,  who  has  hitherto  been  only  a  name. 

II 

At  the  end  the  two  meet,  and  the  picture  is  given  life. 

Ill 

All  through  this  division  St.  George  reveals  to  Overt 
his  real  character,  so  that  when  the  end  comes  Overt 
has  a  less  exalted  idea  of  the  master  than  that  which 
he  had  cherished. 

'63 


IV 

• 

At-  the  end  Marion  Fancourt  tells  Overt  of  St. 
George's  declared  intention  to  cease  visiting  her.  This 
relieves  suspense  by  making  Overt's  position  toward 
her  more  definite,  but  also  involves  matters  because  of 
St.  George's  failure  to  give  any  good  reason  for  his 
action. 

V 

At  the  end  Overt,  by  the  advice  of  St.  George,  sac- 
rifices in  the  cause  of  true  art  all  his  natural  desires 
for  love  and  domestic  joys. 

VI 

In  the  first  part  Overt  learns  of  St.  George's  engage- 
ment to  Miss  Fancourt. 

At  the  end  St.  George  tells  Overt  that  he  has  given 
up  writing  to  enjoy  those  very  things  which  he  advised 
Overt  to  renounce. 

A  study  of  this  outline  will  show  you  the  necessity, 
in  the  case  of  this  story,  of  these  preliminary  reliefs 
of  the  suspense.  It  would  have  been  absurdly  im- 
possible to  have  tried  to  hold  in  abeyance  until  the 
climax  all  these  matters;  nor  does  the  solving  of  any 
of  these  minor  perplexities  at  all  lessen  the  interest 
in  the  denouement.  Each  bit  of  information  comes 
out  at  the  proper  time  as  a  matter  of  course,  just  as 
it  would  come  to  our  knowledge  if  we  were  observ- 
ing a  similar  drama  in  real  life. 

.164 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

When  the  outcome  of  the  writer's  meanderings 
is  finally  revealed,  it  should  be  a  veritable  surprise — 
i.  e.,  be  unexpected.  This  is  a  matter  that  is  rather 
easily  managed,  for  it  is  a  poor  plot  that  does  not  af- 
ford at  least  two  settlements — either  the  heroine  mar- 
ries the  hero,  or  she  marries  the  villain;  and  often 
there  is  a  third  possibility,  that  she  marries  neither. 
If  he  has  provided  a  proper  plot,  the  author  has  but 
little  to  do  with  making  the  surprise  genuine,  and 
that  little  is  rather  negative.  He  opens  the  possibil- 
ity of  the  hero  doing  any  one  of  a  number  of  things, 
and  he  may  even  give  rather  broad  hints,  but  he 
should  take  care  never  to  give  a  clue  to  the  outcome 
of  the  story,  unless  he  purposely  gives  a  misleading 
clue.  The  most  artistic  method  is  to  make  these  hints 
progressive  and  culminative,  so  that  though  each  one 
adds  to  the  knowledge  of  the  reader,  it  is  only  when 
they  all  culminate  in  the  climax  that  the  mystery  is 
completely  solved. 

This  preparation  for  the  climax  is  one  of  the  most 
delicate  tasks  required  of  the  short  story  writer. 
The  climax  must  seem  the  logical  result  of  events 
and  personal  characteristics  already  recited.  If  it 
is  too  startling  or  unexpected  it  will  be  a  strain  on 
the  credulity  of  the  reader,  and  will  be  dubbed  "  un- 

165 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

natural;  "  for  though  fiction  allows  great  license 
in  the  employment  of  strange  people  and  situations, 
it  demands  that  they  be  used  with  some  regard  for 
plausibility.  The  ending  must  appear  inevitable — 
but  its  inevitableness  must  not  be  apparent  until  the 
end  has  come.  It  is  only  after  the  story  has  been 
read  that  the  reader  should  be  able  to  look  back 
through  the  narrative  and  pick  out  the  preparatory 
touches.  They  must  have  influenced  him  when  first 
he  read  them  and  prepared  him  for  what  was  to 
come,  but  without  his  being  conscious  of  their  in- 
fluence. 

The  novice  usually  prepares  the  way  for  his  cli- 
max so  carefully  that  he  gives  it  away  long  before 
he  should.  This  he  does  either  by  means  of  antici 
patory  side  remarks,  or  by  making  the  outcome  of 
his  story  so  obvious  at  the  start  that  he  really  has 
no  story  to  tell,  and  a  climax  or  surprise  is  impos- 
sible. The  first  fault  is  much  the  easier  to  correct : 
most  of  the  side  remarks  can  be  cut  out  bodily  with- 
out injury  to  the  story,  and  those  which  are  really 
necessary  can  be  so  modified  and  slurred  over  that 
they  will  prepare  the  way  for  the  climax  without 
revealing  it.  The  other  fault  is  usually  radical :  it 
is  the  result  of  a  conventional  plot  treated  in  the 

1 66 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

conventional  manner.  It  is  beyond  help  so  far  as 
concerns  that  particular  story,  for  it  requires  a  new 
plot  handled  in  an  original  manner;  but  its  recur- 
rence can  be  prevented  if  the  writer  will  be  more 
exacting  in  his  selection  of  plots,  and  more  indi- 
vidual in  his  methods.  It  can  usually  be  detected  in 
the  beginning,  as  in  the  case  of  the  last  example 
quoted  in  Chapter  VIII. 

In  "  The  Ambitious  Guest "  the  climax  is  led  up 
to  most  skillfully  by  Hawthorne;  indeed,  his  prep- 
aration is  so  clever  that  it  is  not  always  easy  to  trace. 
Throughout  the  story  there  are  an  air  of  gloom  and 
a  strange  turning  to  thoughts  of  death  that  seem  to 
portend  a  catastrophe;  and  I  believe  the  following 
passages  are  intentional  notes  of  warning: 

1  ....  a  cold  spot  and  a  dangerous  one stones 

would  often  rumble  down  its  sides  and  startle  them  at 
midnight. 

2  ....  the    wind    came    through    the    Notch    and 

seemed  to  pause  before  their  cottage, wailing  and 

lamentation.  .  .  .     For  a  moment  it   saddened  them, 
though  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  tones. 

3  ....  whose  fate  was  linked  with  theirs. 

8  (Entire.) 

9  (Entire.) 

10  ...  .a  prophetic  sympathy the  kindred  of  a 

common  fate .... 

167 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

12  (Entire.) 

14  " a    noble    pedestal    for    a    man's    statue." 

(Doubtful.) 

1 6  " things  that  are  pretty  certain  never  to  come 

to  pass." 

17  " when  he  is  a  widower." 

1 8  "  When  I  think  of  your  death,  Esther,  I  think  of 

mine  too.    But  I  was  wishing  we  had  a  good  farm 

round  the  White  Mountains,  but  not  where  they  could 

tumble  on  our  heads I  might  die  happy  enough 

in  my  bed A  slate  gravestone  would  suit  me  as 

well  as  a  marble  one . . . . " 

20  "  They  say  it's  a  sign  of  something  when  folk's 
minds  go  a-wandering  so." 

22  " go  and  take  a  drink  out  of  the  basin  of  the 

Flume."  (Doubtful;  unless  regarded  as  the  result  of 
some  subtle  warning  to  fly  the  spot.) 

26  ....  though  their  music  and  mirth  came  back 
drearily  from  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

28  ...  .a  light  cloud  passed  over  the  daughter's 
spirit 

32  ....  it  might  blossom  in  Paradise,  since  it  could 

not  be  matured  on  earth the  wind  through 

the  Notch  took  a  deeper  and  drearier  sound 

There  was  a  wail  along  the  road  as  if  a  funeral  were 
passing. 

36  (Entire.) 

38  (Entire.) 

39  (Entire.) 

A  novice  writing  the  same  story   would   hardly 
1 68 


THE  STORY  PROPER 

have  refrained  from  introducing  some  very  bald 
hints  concerning1  the  fate  of  the  ambitious  stranger; 
for  the  novice  has  a  mistaken  idea  that  wordy  and 
flowery  exclamations  make  sad  events  all  the  sad- 
der, forgetting  that  silent  grief  is  the  keenest.  Thus 
the  novice  would  have  interlarded  his  narrative  with 
such  exclamations  as : 

f  12. 

Ah !  could  the  unfortunate  stranger  but  have  guessed 
the  culmination  of  his  bright  dreams,  how  would  he 
have  bewailed  his  fate ! 

tip- 

Unhappy  youth !  his  grave  was  to  be  unmarked,  his 
very  death  in  doubt ! 

T*8. 

Poor  girl !  had  she  a  premonition  of  her  awful  death  ? 

Such  interpolations  are  very  exasperating  to  the 
reader,  for  he  much  prefers  to  learn  for  himself  the 
outcome  of  the  tale;  and  they  also  greatly  offend 
against  the  rhetorical  correctness  of  the  story,  for 
they  are  always  utterly  irrelevant  and  obstructive. 

The  only  stories  which  may  properly  anticipate 
their  own  denouements  are  what  might  be  called 
"  stories  of  premonition,"  in  which  the  interest  de- 
pends upon  comparing  actual  events  to  the  prophecy 

169 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

of  dreams  or  some  other  mystical  agency.  In  such 
tales  the  real  interest  is  usually  in  the  weirdness  of 
the  whole  affair — though,  to  be  sure,  they  do  not  al- 
ways turn  out  as  they  are  expected  to.  For,  after 
all,  this  introduction  of  surprise  into  fiction  is  simply 
an  imitation  of  nature,  and  "  it  is  the  unexpected  that 
always  happens." 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

IF  the  overworked  editor,  hastily  skimming  the 
heap  of  MSS.  before  him,  comes  upon  one  which 
promises  well  in  the  opening  paragraphs,  he  will  turn 
to  its  conclusion,  to  learn  how  well  the  author  has 
kept  his  promise;  and  if  he  finds  there  equal  evidence 
of  a  good  story,  he  will  put  the  MS.  by  for  more 
careful  reading  and  possible  purchase.  ^Experience 
has  taught  him  that  the  end  of  a  story  is  second  only 
to  the  beginning  as  a  practical  test  of  the  narrative; 
and  therefore  to  the  author  as  well  the  conclusion 
is  of  extreme  importance.) 

The  end  of  a  short  story  comprises  the  climax  and 
the  conclusion.  The  climax  is  the  chief  surprise,  the 
relief  of  the  suspense,  or  the  greatest  relief,  if  there  is 
more  than  one;  it  is  the  apex  of  interest  and  emo- 
tion; it  is  the  point  of  the  story;  it  is  really  the  story. 
The  conclusion  is  the  solving  of  all  problems,  the 
termination  of  the  narrative  itself,  and  the  artistic 
severing  of  all  relations  between  narrator  and  reader. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

The  climax,  in  spite  of  its  importance,  is  but  a 
small  part  of  the  story,  so  far  as  mere  words  are 
concerned.  In  a  properly  constructed  narrative  its 
influence  is  felt  throughout  the  whole  story,  which, 
as  already  stated,  is  but  one  long  preparation  for  it. 
But  in  itself  the  climax  is  usually  confined  to  a  sin- 
gle paragraph  of  ordinary  length;  and  the  climax 
proper,  the  real  point  of  the  story,  is  usually  con- 
veyed in  a  half  dozen  words.  For  the  climax,  and 
particularly  the  climax  proper,  is  the  story  concen- 
trated in  a  single  phrase.  It  must  have  been  pre- 
pared for  carefully  and  worked  up  to  at  some  length ; 
but  when  it  does  come  it  must  be  expressed  so  di- 
rectly and  so  forcefully  that  it  will  make  the  reader 
jump  mentally,  if  not  physically.  It  is  the  desire 
to  produce  this  startling  effect  that  leads  some  wri- 
ters to  endeavor  to  gain  artificial  force  by  printing 
their  climax  proper  in  italics,  or  even  in  capitals. 
In  "  The  Ambitious  Guest "  we  have  an  unusually 
strong  and  perfect  climax  in  T  40,  41 : 

...  .a  sound  abroad  in  the  night,  rising  like  the  roar 
of  a  blast,  had  grown  broad,  deep  and  terrible  before  the 
fated  group  were  conscious  of  it.  The  house  and  all 
within  it  trembled ;  the  foundations  of  the  earth  seemed 
to  be  shaken,  as  if  this  awful  sound  was  the  peal  of  the 
last  trump.  Young  and  old  exchanged  one  wild  glance 

172 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

and  remained  an  instant  pale,  affrighted,  without  utter- 
ance or  power  to  move.    Then  the  same  shriek  burst 
simultaneously  from  all  their  lips : 
"The  slide!    The  slide!" 

while  the  climax  proper — the  climax  of  the  climax — 
occurs  in  the  four  words  which  compose  ^[  41. 

"The  slide!    The  slide!" 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  climax  should 
be  very  near  the  end  of  the  story,  for  even  those 
stories  which  attempt  to  begin  in  the  middle  and  go 
both  ways  at  once  place  the  climax  properly.  \  But 
there  is  a  danger  that  the  climax  will  come  too  soon.^ 
After  they  have  reached  what  is  properly  a  central 
point  in  their  story,  amateurs  often  become  lazy  or 
in  too  great  a  hurry,  and  rush  the  latter  part  of  the  • 
narrative  through  unceremoniously.  In  the  first 
part  they  may  have  been  inclined  to  go  into  need- 
less detail;  but  when  once  they  come  in  sight  of 
the  finish,  they  forget  everything  except  that  their 
task  is  nearly  ended;  they  plunge  ahead  regardless, 
treat  important  matters  most  superficially,  neglect 
those  skillful  little  touches  which  go  to  make  a  story 
natural  and  literary,  and  reach  the  end  to  find  that 
they  have  skeletonized  an  important  part  of  the  nar- 

'73 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

rative.  In  such  a  case  the  reader  is  very  apt  to  come 
upon  the  climax  unexpectedly,  and  so  to  find  it 
forced  and  illogical;  whereas  if  the  author  had  pre- 
served the  proportions  of  his  narrative,  and  led  up  to 
his  climax  properly,  it  would  have  been  accounted 
strong  and  inevitable. 

The  climax  of  a  story  must  be  a  genuine  climax — 
that  is,  it  must  be  the  culmination  of  the  interest  of 
the  story,  and  it  must  definitely  end  and  eliminate 
the  element  of  suspense.  The  climax,  or  its  imme- 
diate consequences,  must  decide  the  destinies  of  all 
your  characters,  and  the  fate  of  all  their  schemes. 
If  the  heroine  is  hesitating  between  her  two  lovers 
she  must  decide  in  the  climax  or  on  account  of  it; 
if  the  hero  is  in  a  position  of  great  danger  he  must 
be  killed  or  saved.  The  revelation  need  not  be 
couched  in  the  bald  phrase,  "  And  so  John  married 
Kate;  "  but  it  may  be  hinted  at  or  suggested  in 
the  most  subtle  manner;  but  settled  in  some  way  it 
must  be.  Stockton  did  otherwise  in  "  The  Lady, 
or  the  Tiger?  "  but  he  sought  for  humorous  effect, 
and  all  things  are  fair  in  the  funny  story.  Stories 
which  are  meant  to  be  serious,  but  which  leave  the 
reader  still  puzzling  over  the  possibilities  of  the  plot, 
are  likely  to  get  their  author  into  serious  difficul- 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

ties  with  the  reading  public,  even  if  the  editors  can 
be  persuaded  to  overlook  his  idiosyncracies. 

The  amateur  is  prone  to  the  conviction,  deduced, 
I  fear,  from  the  practice  of  the  cheap  melodrama  and 
the  cheaper  novel,  that  "  climax  "  and  "  tragedy  " 
are  synonymous  terms,  and  that  he  is  violating  sa- 
cred traditions  unless  he  ends  his  tale  with  a  violent 
death.  But  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  that  the 
climax  of  a  short  story  should  be  or  should  contain 
a  catastrophe  or  a  tragedy.  Its  nature  depends  en- 
tirely upon  the  character  of  the  tale  in  which  it  ap- 
pears, and  it  may  be  just  as  strong  and  just  as  thril- 
ling if  it  consists  only  of  the  "  Yes  "  with  which 
the  heroine  answers  the  hero's  wooing.  Indeed,  it 
not  infrequently  happens  that  the  tragedy  or  the 
catastrophe  which  appears  in  the  climax  is  only  an 
accessory  to  the  real  climax,  a  cause  or  a  result  of  it. 
The  climax  of  "  The  Ambitious  Guest  "  iaf^.  tragedy; 
but  the  climax  of  Irving's  "  The  Legend  of  Sleepy 
Hollow,"  though  certainly  a  catastrophe,  is  anything 
but  tragic,  if  read  in  the  ironic  spirit  in  which  it 
was  written : 

Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpow- 
der sprang  upon  the  bridge ;  he  thundered  over  the  re- 
sounding planks ;  he  gained  the  opposite  side ;  and  now 

'75 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should 
vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone. Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his  stir- 
rups, and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at  him. 
Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the  horrible  missile,  but 
too  late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremen- 
dous crash ;  he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and 
Gunpowder,  the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider  passed 
by  like  a  whirlwind. 

While  in  Poe's  "  The  Black  Cat,"  one  tragedy  is  a 
preliminary  of  the  climax  and  another  is  in  a  manner 
the  result  of  it;  but  the  real  climax  is  the  discovery 
of  the  cat : 

a  dozen  stout  arms  were  toiling  at  the  wall.    It 

fell  bodily.  The  corpse,  already  greatly  decayed  and 
clotted  with  gore,  stood  erect  before  the  eyes  of  the 
spectators.  On  its  head,  with  red  extended  mouth  and 
solitary  eye  of  fire,  sat  the  hideous  beast  whose  craft 
had  seduced  me  into  murder,  and  whose  informing 
voice  had  consigned  me  to  the  hangman.  I  had  walled 
the  monster  up  within  the  tomb ! 

Nor  does  the  mere  introduction  of  a  tragedy  make 
a  climax,  for  though  the  following  paragraphs  con- 
tain two  tragedies,  there  is  no  climactic  force : 

Joseph,  who  had  been  sitting  with  his  head  on  his 
knees,  and  wondering  what  in  the  world  was  going  to 
happen,  raised  his  head,  and  exclaimed,  on  seeing  his 
brother,  "  You  have  come  after  me — "  At  this  instant 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

some  one  struck  him  on  the  head  with  a  pistol,  which 
brought  him  to  the  floor.  But  Harry,  hearing  the 
familiar  voice,  and  seeing  the  man  also,  knew  too  well 
who  it  was.  He  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  Stop ! 
Wait !  This  thing  must  be  investigated !  "  Telling 
them  who  the  prisoner  was,  and  pleading  with  them,  he 
was  finally  able  to  disperse  the  mob,  though  against 
their  own  will. 

The  next  morning,  when  Mamie  was  brought  to  con- 
sciousness again,  she  begged  that  he  should  not  be  pun- 
ished. 

On  learning  the  truth  he  was  immediately  released, 
but  the  bitter  grief,  mingled  with  so  much  excitement, 
was  more  than  he  could  endure.  He  died  that  night  at 
ten. 

The  bitterness  occasioned  by  this  catastrophe  re- 
mained in  the  bosom  of  Mamie,  and  she  too  died  of  a 
broken  heart. 

The  plot  of  a  certain  type  of  story  requires  sub- 
ordinate and  preliminary  climaxes  to  relieve  the 
tension  or  advance  the  action,  as  already  stated.* 
Such  periods,  when  given  genuine  climactic  force, 
are  antagonistic  to  the  spirit  of  the  short  story,  in  that 
they  violate  the  unity,  and  a  story  containing  them 
is  usually  faulty  otherwise;  but  such  stories  have 
been  written  by  good  writers  and  so  must  be  recog- 
nized here.  The  preliminary  climaxes  must  be  suf- 

*  See  "preparation  for  the  climax". in  Chapter.  IX. 
177 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

ficiently  few,  sufficiently  subordinate  and  sufficiently 
distant  not  to  detract  from  the  force  of  the  chief 
climax.  /The  main  point  is  to  see  that  one  of  the  pre- 
liminary climaxes  is  not  really  the  climax,  for  inex- 
perienced writers  sometimes  allow  their  stories  to 
run  on  longer  than  they  should;  or  they  confuse 
what  is  merely  an  incident  with  what  should  be  made 
the  main  crisisX  In  "  The  Ambitious  Guest  "  there 
is  only  one  climax;  but  in  Hawthorne's  "  Mr.  Higin- 
botham's  Catastrophe  "  I  find  no  less  than  five  criti- 
cal points,  which  I  here  subpend  with  the  numbers 
of  the  paragraphs  in  which  they  occur : 

17- 

"  Old  Mr.  Higginbotham  of  Kimballton  was  mur- 
dered in  his  orchard  at  eight  o'clock  last  night  by  an 
Irishman  and  a  nigger.  They  strung  him  up  to  the 
branch  of  a  St.  Michael's  pear  tree  where  nobody  would 
find  him  till  the  morning." 

Ii4- 

"  ....if  squire  Higginbotham  was  murdered  night 
before  last  I  drank  a  glass  of  bitters  with  his  ghost  this 
morning.  Being  a  neighbor  of  mine,  he  called  me  into 
his  store  as  I  was  riding  by,  and  treated  me . ..." 

f  21. 

"  No,  no !  There  was  no  colored  man.  It  was  an 
Irishman  that  hanged  him  last  night  at  eight  o'clock; 
I  came  away  at  seven." 

178 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

136. 

"I  left  Kimballton  this  morning  to  spend  the  vacation 
of  commencement- week  with  a  friend  about  fi/e  miles 
from  Parker's  Falls.  My  generous  uncle,  when  he 
heard  me  on  the  stairs,  called  me  to  his  bedside  and 
gave  me  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  to  pay  my  stage- 
fare,  and  another  dollar  for  my  extra  expenses." 

If  49- 

He  rushed  forward,  prostrated  a  sturdy  Irishman 
with  the  butt-end  of  his  whip,  and  found — not,  indeed, 
hanging  on  the  St.  Michael's  pear  tree,  but  trembling 
beneath  it  with  a  halter  round  his  neck — the  old  iden- 
tical Mr.  Higginbotham. 

These  several  climaxes  form  a  perfect  series,  each 
a  little  higher  than  its  predecessor,  and  all  logically 
culminating  in  the  chief  climax  of  the  story  in  T  49; 
and  by  this  progressive  and  culminative  effect  they 
go  far  to  preserve  the  sense  of  unity  which  their 
presence  endangers.  Such  real  if  minor  climaxes 
are  entirely  different  from  the  several  stages  of  the 
story  illustrated  in  Chapter  IX  by  James'  "  The  Les- 
son of  the  Master." 

The  novice  usually  has  some  hazy  conception  of 
the  importance  of  a  climax,  and  endeavors  according 
to  his  lights  to  attain  the  desired  effect,  but  he  is  sel- 
dom successful.  Most  frequently  he  is  handicapped 
by  his  plot,  which  is  not  designed  to  produce  a  suc- 

179 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

cessful  climax.  If  he  has  escaped  that  danger  he  is 
liable  to  ruin  a  possible  good  climax  by  too  abrupt 
an  introduction.  His  nearest  approach  to  success  is 
what  may  be  called  a  "  false  "  or  "  technical "  cli- 
max, in  the  use  of  which  he  is  very  skillful — too 
skillful,  indeed,  for  his  own  good.  This  false  climax 
is  produced  by  breaking  off  the  narrative  abruptly 
the  moment  the  suspense  of  the  story  is  terminated. 
It  is  really  an  abrupt  conclusion,  and  not  a  climax 
at  all;  and  it  produces  the  jump  in  the  reader's  mind 
by  its  suddenness,  and  not  by  its  concentrated  force. 
It  is  sometimes  made  more  pointed  by  the  use  of 
italics  or  capitals.  Thus  the  following  final  para- 
graphs, which  are  typical  of  the  work  of  the  novice, 
have  no  hint  of  a  climax  as  they  stand : 

Mrs.  Moore  sat  gazing  into  the  glowing  grate. 

"  Well,  truants,  where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ? 
I — "  She  stopped  suddenly  as  she  saw  Nettie's  blushes, 
and  the  happy  look  on  Guy's  face. 

"  Mother,  Nettie  has  made  me  the  happiest  man  in 
existence,  by  consenting  to  be  my  wife.  And  we  have 
come  to  ask  your  blessing." 

"  It  is  heartily  given,  my  dear  children.  Nothing 
could  give  me  more  pleasure  than  to  see  you  two  hap- 
pily married,"  said  she,  kissing  them.  "  By  the  way, 
how  did  you  young  people  happen  to  make  this  wonder- 
ful discovery  ?  " 

180 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

"Well,  mother,  I  have  had  some  serious  thoughts 
about  the  matter  ever  since  I  surprised  you  and  Nettie 
last  September,  but  I  never  dared  to  put  my  thoughts 
into  words  till  to-day." 

"  I  don't  remember  that  you  surprised  Nettie.  She 
was  out  in  the  orchard,  she  told  me,  when  you  arrived." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  remember  finding  her  in  the  or- 
chard," and  he  gave  a  ludicrous  description  of  their  first 
meeting. 

"  That  accounts  for  Nettie's  blushes  when  I  intro- 
duced you  that  day.  You  won't  go  west  now,  will  you, 
Guy?" 

"  I  shall  have  to,  mother ;  but  I'll  sell  out  at  the  first 
opportunity.  In  the  meantime  I  think  we  had  better 
notify  aunt  Adams  that  she  is  doomed  to  have  a  son- 
in-law." 

"  I  have  thought  of  an  excellent  plan,"  said  Nettie. 
"  Let's  all  go  east  for  the  holidays.  Only,  for  goodness' 
sake,  don't  tell  Edith  and  Maud  about  my  exploits  in 
the  apple  tree.  They  would  be  so  shocked  at  my  lack 
of  dignity." 

So  the  following  week  they  started  for  Nettie's 
home.  Guy  soon  won  Mrs.  Adams'  consent  to  her 
daughter's  marriage,  which  was  arranged  to  take  place 
the  following  September. 

"  That  is  the  month  in  which  the  old  apple  tree  bears 
its  most  delicious  fruit,"  Guy  whispered  to  Nettie. 

If,  however,  the  author  had  stopped  with  the  third 
paragraph,  he  would  have  had  at  least  a  false  or 
technical  climax.  This  false  climax  must  not  be  con- 

181 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

fused  with  the  coincident  real  climax  and  abrupt  end- 
ing discussed  further  on. 

When  the  climax  has  come  the  story  has  reached 
its  end  and  the  quicker  you  terminate  it  the  better 
your  reader  will  be  pleased.  With  the  passing  of 
the  climax  interest  ceases,  and  you  have  only  to 
gather  up  and  explain  the  few  unsettled  points,  and 
round  off  your  narrative  gracefully.  Any  fur- 
ther interest  in  your  characters  is  little  more  than 
a  sense  of  politeness  due  to  old  acquaintances; 
or,  at  most,  a  psychological  desire  for  complete  im- 
pressions. So  when  you  have  told  your  tale,  end  it_ 
(For  the  conclusion,  as  for  the  beginning,  one 
paragraph  is  about  the  average  length/)  The  prac- 
tice differs,  of  course,  with  different  writers  and  dif- 
ferent stories,  but  there  is  not  so  much  variance  as 
in  the  beginnings.  An  effective  climax  often  com- 
pletes a  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  way.  In 
"  The  Ambitious  Guest  "  Hawthorne  employs  three 
paragraphs  (T  42-44),  exclusive  of  the  climax  it- 
self, to  conclude  the  story.  Each  of  these  three  par- 
agraphs contains  matter  necessary  to  the  comple- 
tion of  the  tale  in  Hawthorne's  style.  It  is  prob- 
able that  a  modern  writer  would  have  condensed 
them  into  a  single  paragraph,  because  of  the  modern 
demand  for  extreme  compression;  but  with  the  pos- 

182 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

sible  exception  of  the  last  two  sentences  of  T  44 
there  is  nothing  irrelevant  in  the  conclusion.  In 
"  The  Birthmark,"  and  "  Young  Goodman  Brown," 
Hawthorne  uses  but  a  single  paragraph  forliis  con- 
clusion. 

(The  conclusion  and  thesclimax  should  be  as  nearly 
simultaneous  as  possible./  The  present  tendency  is 
to  make  them  coincide,  and  so  increase  the  effect 
of  the  climax  by  making  it  the  actual  end  of  the 
story,  as  it  is  the  end  of  the  interest.  It  is  not  al- 
ways that  the  coincidence  can  be  perfect,  but  many 
a  story  could  be  cut  short  immediately  after  the  cli- 
max, and  be  much  improved  thereby.  For  exam- 
ple, if  Hawthorne  had  written  "  The  Ambitious 
Guest "  to-day  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have 
ended  it  with  1  44:  "The  slide!  The  slide!" 
Had  he  done  so  he  would  certainly  have  given  ad- 
ditional force  to  his  climax,  strong  though  it  is  now ; 
and  I  believe  that  any  reader  would  have  understood 
perfectly  all  that  is  contained  in  1"  42-44.  You 
must  be  careful,  however,  in  the  use  of  this  style  of 
conclusion,  lest  your  supposed  climax  is  merely  an 
abrupt  ending — a  false  climax — which  leaves  unset- 
tled some  things  which  a  further  conclusion  should 
make  clear.  Not  every  plot  allows  an  abrupt  end- 
ing, even  though  it  may  have  a  good  climax,  and 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

you  must  suit  your  method  to  your  matter.  In  any; 
case,  the  story  must  convey  a  complete  impression. 
But  the  conclusion  must  not  be  padded  with  ir- 
relevant matter  to  make  it  appear  rounded,  or  to 
please  the  perverted  taste  of  the  writer.  The  end  is 
allowed  scant  space  and  has  even  less  room  for  sage 
observations,  or  pointing  of  morals,  or  lamentations 
over  the  sins  or  misfortunes  portrayed  than  have  the 
other  parts  of  the  story.  In  the  example  already 
quoted  the  narrative  drags  on  for  some  nine  para- 
graphs after  the  story  is  really  ended,  without  add- 
ing anything  of  interest  or  value.  Happily  such 
conclusions  are  infrequent,  but  the  best  of  writers 
are  occasionally  dragged  into  them  through  their 
reluctance  to  quit  forever  scenes  and  people  that 
have  grown  dear  to  them  through  close  association. 
A  somewhat  similar  method  of  padding  out  the  con- 
1  elusion  to  the  detriment  of  the  story  is  to  end  with 
a  catch  word  referring  to  the  beginning,  as  in  the 
following  example,  where  the  "  blackberry  girl "  is 
a  reminder  of  the  title : 

I  hope  these  few  surprises  of  mine  may  serve  as  a 
lesson  to  some  young  man,  and  help  to  teach  him  to 
prove  true  to  his  first  love,  though  she  may  appear  to 
be  only  a  poor  girl — yes,  even  a  "  blackberry  girl" 

184 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

r 

Of  all  poor  conclusions  the  conventional  is  most  to 
be  feared  by  the  novice,  for  it  is  surely  fatal  to  the 
story  to  which  it  is  attached?)  If  the  story  is  con- 
ventional in  plot  and  treatment  it  is  inevitable  that 
its  ending  should  be  conventional,  so  here  again  we 
see  the  necessity  of  originality  of  plot.  But  too 
often  a  writer,  after  having  successfully  carried  his 
story  past  the  climax,  will  grow  weary  or  careless 
and  end  it  with  the  conventional  ideas  and  phrases 
which  were  worn  threadbare  ages  ago. 

The  inexperienced  writer  of  the  gentler  sex  is 
peculiarly  liable  to  be  guilty  of  using  conventional 
endings.  To  her  mind,  apparently,  the  chief  end 
of  man  is  marriage,  and  the  proper  end  of  a  story 
is  a  wedding.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  this 
is  the  only  logical  conclusion  to  her  stories,  for  from 
the  moment  they  appear  in  the  opening  paragraphs 
the  reader  knows  that  in  the  last  the  hero  will  marry 
the  heroine,  willy  nilly,  at  the  behest  of  the  match- 
making "  authoress."  "  To  the  author,  who  has 
suffered  with  and  on  account  of  his  characters  more 
intensely  than  any  reader  can  suffer,  there  is  some- 
thing amusing  in  this  anxiety  to  have  the  old  for- 
mula, '  And  they  all  lived  happy  ever  afterwards/ 
repeated  at  the  end  of  every  tale.  A  tiny  bonwt 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

bouche  of  happiness  is  so  inadequate  after  some 
stories  of  sorrow  that  it  seems  almost  an  irony  to 
offer  it  to  the  readers;  and  yet,  like  children  who 
have  taken  a  bitter  medicine,  they  are  very  likely  to 
complain  that  they  have  had  no  taste  of  sweetness, 
if  it  is  not  offered  to  them The  common  feel- 
ing that  death  is  inevitably  sad  is  responsible  for 
much  of  the  stress  which  is  laid  upon  the  endings  of 
books.  That,  and  the  belief  that  people  who  love 
each  other  can  have  no  joy  or  benefit  of  life  if  they 
must  live  apart,  have  set  up  two  formal  and  arbitrary 
conditions  which  a  story  must  fulfil  in  order  to  be 
considered  cheerful.  The  principal  characters  may 
go  through  fire  and  water  if  necessary,  but  they  must 
get  rid  of  their  smoke  stains  and  dry  their  costumes 
in  time  to  appear  alive  and  smiling  in  the  final  chap- 
ter; and  the  hero  and  the  heroine  must  marry  each 
other,  or,  if  the  writer  has  allowed  their  affections 
to  wander  further  afield,  they  must  at  least  marry 
the  people  of  their  choice.  These,  of  course,  are 
not  the  standards  of  the  most  thoughtful  readers,  and 
yet,  like  all  conventionalities,  they  extend  further 
than  an  author  likes  to  believe."  * 


*"The  Problem  of  Endings,"  by  Mary  Tracy  Earle.    The 
Book  Buyer.    Aug.  '98. 

1 86 


CLIMAX  AND  CONCLUSION 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  if  real  people  were  con- 
stantly thrown  at  one  another's  heads  so  determin- 
edly it  would  take  a  stronger  power  than  even  the 
omnipotent  literary  aspirant  to  force  them  into  mat- 
rimony. Nor  are  weddings,  or  descriptions  thereof, 
particularly  delectable  reading  when  they  desert  the 
society  column  for  the  short  story.  They  are  usu- 
ally very  much  alike — though  one  original  writer  did 
perform  her  ceremony  up  a  tree — and  the  bride  al- 
ways wears  the  same  dresses  and  smiles  the  same 
smiles  and  weeps  the  same  tears.  So  if  you  must 
have  a  wedding,  let  the  reader  off  with  the  classic 
formula,  "  And  so  they  were  married  and  lived  hap- 
pily ever  after;  "  but  don't  inflict  on  him  such  cheap 
sentimentalism  as  this: 

Christmas  morning  was  clear,  cold  and  bright,  just 
such  a  morning  as  had  marked  Fred's  first  departure 
from  the  Blanford's  some  three  years  before. 

Grace's  sisters  had  come  home  to  take  charge  of  af- 
fairs for  the  day  and  evening  so  Grace  did  not  have 
much  to  see  after  but  herself.  Fred,  supposing  he 
would  rather  be  in  the  way,  did  not  arrive  until  about 
an  hour  before  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place,  which 
was  in  the  evening.  A  good  many  guests  were  invited 
and  as  they  had  already  begun  to  arrive,  Grace  but 
barely  had  time  to  greet  Fred,  when  she  found  she  must 
withdraw  and  don  her  wedding  garment. 

187 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

If  Grace  had  looked  pretty  with  her  gown  held  up 
about  her  a  few  weeks  ago,  she  now  looked  handsome 
indeed  as  she  came  into  the  well  crowded  room. 

Her  rich  silk  gown  fell  in  deep  soft  folds  at  her 
dainty  feet.  The  soft  creamy  lace  fell  about  her  well 
shaped  neck  in  clusters ;  the  color  of  the  gown  made  her 
hair  and  eyes  look  black  as  jet ;  and  the  excitement  still 
kept  the  roses  in  her  cheeks.  Fred  did  not  look  so 
handsome,  but  no  one  could  help  admire  the  manly  form 
as  he  stood  beside  Grace  answering  the  questions  that 
were  to  acknowledge  them  man  and  wife. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over  and  congratula- 
tions had  been  extended  to  the  bride  and  groom,  they 
were  ushered  in  to  a  nicely  prepared  supper.  A  merry 
Christmas  evening  was  spent.  Grace's  brothers  did  not 
lose  their  housekeeper,  as  she  and  Fred  made  their  home 
with  them. 

They  spent  their  days  not  like  the  hurrying  brook, 
but  grasped  all  the  sunshine  that  was  meant  for  them. 

And  in  general  it  is  much  better — better  art  and  bet- 
ter manners — for  you  to  draw  the  reader  politely 
aside  as  soon  as  the  heroine  has  whispered  the  inev- 
itable "  Yes;"  for  what  follows  should  not  be 
spied  upon  by  any  third  party. 


188 


XI 

THE  STYLE 

THE  method  of  presentation  of  the  short  story  is 
a  matter  of  import.  Its  very  artificiality  calls  for 
skilled  workmanship;  it  must  be  made  pleasant  and 
readable  by  all  known  devices;  its  brevity,  too,  per- 
mits and  demands  a  higher  finish  than  is  necessary 
in  the  novel.  And  altogether  the  short  story  offers 
a  writer  who  is  not  exactly  a  genius  a  rare  chance  to 
show  his  ability  as  an  artist  in  words.  Hence  the 
question  of  style  is  of  serious  moment. 

Style  is  so  much  a  matter  of  individuality,  and  the 
short  story  comprises  so  broad  a  range  of  subjects, 
that  it  is  not  easy  to  lay  down  general  rules  con- 
cerning the  proper  style.  No  two  masters  would  or 
could  treat  the  same  plot  in  precisely  the  same  way, 
and  yet  the  method  of  each  would  be  correct.  How- 
ever, certain  generalizations  concerning  the  style  of 
the  short  story  may  be  made  without  being  arbitrary. 
VAs  always  in  literature,  the  style  should  be  appro- 
priate to  the  matter.  This  may  seem  entirely  gra- 

189 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

tuitous,  yet  the  examination  of  the-  work  of  ama- 
teurs will  justify  the  remark.  They  are  apt  to  treat 
serious  subjects  with  the  most  unbecoming  levity, 
and  to  dress  commonplaces  in  an  absurdly  ornate 
style;  and  at  times  they  so  far  disregard  propriety 
that  they  offend  against  good  taste. 

S  The  style  of  the  short  story  should  be  simple,  easy 
and  concise.  Usually  the  matter  is  not  of  great 
moment;  it  is  incidental  rather  than  critical;  and  it 
offers  little  reason  for  exaggerated  expressions,  or 
rotund  periods.  Above  all  it  should  be  natural,  for 
the  short  story,  despite  its  many  conventionalities, 
is  very  near  to  nature.  The  extreme  sensationalism 
affected- by  many  amateurs  is  most  absurd,  for  na- 
ture and  things  true  to  nature  can  never  be  really 
sensational — a  fact  which  is  unconsciously  recog- 
nized by  the  offending  writer  in  his  resort  to  arti- 
ficial means  to  make  his  narrative  sensational.  I 
say  "  extreme  sensationalism  "  because  I  believe  a 
certain  amount  of  what  is  commonly  designated  sen- 
sationalism is^permissible  in  the  short  story  to  sus- 
tain the  interest,  and  to  produce  that  delightful 
"  thrill  "  which  accompanies  a  clever  scene.  (  The 
best  rule  for  the  novice  is  to  stick  close  to  nature — 
that  is,  to  fact.  He  may  present  what  startling  ef- 

190 


THE  STYLE 

fects  he  will  so  that  he  can  prove  them  copies  of 
nature,  and  so  that  they  do  not  offend  against  art; 
but  it  is  not  permitted  him  to  harrow  the  feelings  of 
his  readers  by  unduly  dwelling  upon  exciting  topics. 
Any  undue  exaggeration  of  this  style,  or  any  attempt 
to  create  excitement  by  sheer  force  of  italics,  capi- 
tals and  exclamation  points,  is  in  extremely  bad 
taste.  It  at  once  disgusts  the  intelligent  reader,  and 
it  will  soon  so  weary  even  the  ignorant  that  he  will 
yawn  drearily  over  the  most  startling  display  of 
"  scare  "  lines.  I 

The  necessity  for  a  simple  style  must  not  be  made  1 
an  excuse  for  commonplaceness ;  and  here  the  au-  j 
thor  confronts  rather  a  serious  question,  for  every- 
day life  abounds  in  commonplaces,  which  literature 
will  not  tolerate.  If  we  make  our  stories  readable 
we  must,  in  some  degree,  represent  life;  if  we  rep- 
resent life  we  cannot  wholly  jrvoid  commonplaces; 
if  we  do  not  avoid  commonplaces  we  become  un- 
literary.  However,  the  difficulty  is  more  easily 
solved  than  at  first  appears,  and  the  solution  lies  in 
the  very  life  which  we  portray/  Life  certainly  is 
full  of  the  baldest  facts,  but  they  are  so  subordinated 
to  the  relatively  few  but  important  events  by  which 
our  lives  are  checkered  that  we  shortly  forget  the 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

^./mmonplaces  and  remember  only  the  striking  oc- 
currences. In  like  manner  we  should  so  preserve 
the  proportion  of  our  stories  that  the  necessary  com- 
monplaces, while  they  properly  perform  their  parts, 
shall  be  carefully  subjugated  to  the  interesting  hap- 
penings. This  is  largely  a  matter  of  the  handling, 
for  in  fiction  events  seem  great  or  small  in  accord- 
ance with  the  space  and  treatment  that  they  receive. 
The  way,  then,  to  dispose  of  commonplaces  is  to 
slight  them  as  much  as  possible :  to  crowd  them  into 
the  least  possible  space,  and  to  couch  them  in  ordi- 
nary language;  for  thoughts  that  are  rendered  unu- 
sual by  their  expression  become  conspicuous. 

By  ordinary  language  I  do  not  mean  the  stereo- 
typed phrases  which  the  mentally  lazy  employ  in 
the  expression  of  their  thoughts,  but  the  simple,  cor- 
rect and  rather  colorless  speech  which  is  heard  among 
the  truly  cultured.  Indeed,  sensationalism  is  prefer- 
able to  the  deadly  monotony  of  the  writer  who  is 
wont  to  clothe  his  ideas  in  the  ready-made  garments 
of  conventional  phrases;  for  sensationalism  has  at 
least  the  merit  of  vividness.  The  writer  who 
penned  the  following  could  hardly  have  been  more 
absurdly  commonplace  and  stereotyped  in  his  phrase- 
ology if  he  had  been  ridiculing  some  "  popular  "  au- 

192 


THE  STYLE 

thor  of  cheap  literature,  but  he  wrote  in  serious 
earnest;  the  story  throughout  is  a  perfect  gold  mine 
of  such  hackneyed  expressions.  I  have  italicized 
the  most  offensive,  though  it  is  hardly  necessary. 

Faint  rumors  of  a  church  scandal  permeated  the' very 
atmosphere  in  Frankton,  and  every  one  was  on  the  alert 
to  catch  the  faintest  whisper  in  regard  to  the  matter; 
as  the  minister  was  a  social  favorite,  and  it  was  known 
by  an  inside  few  that  he  was  the  one  most  seriously  in- 
volved. 

For  a  long  time  the  matter  was  suppressed,  and  then 
first  one  hint  after  another  leaked  out  that  Mrs.  Daniels, 
the  minister's  wife,  was  a  most  unhappy  ivoman,  and 
that  there  was  another  woman  in  the  case. 

At  first  the  members  of  the  congregation  hooted  at 
the  idea;  but  when  item  after  item  of  scandal  came  to 
their  notice  they  begun  to  take  a  little  notice,  and  it  was 
noticeable  that  a  good  many  enquiries  were  going  the 
rounds,  "  just  to  satisfy  themselves  as  to  the  ridiculous 
part  of  it  ",  so  the  curiosity  seekers  explained. 

Other  writers  attempt  to  make  their  commonplaces 
literary  by  couching  them  in  stilted  language,  and 
then  we  have  what  is  technically  termed  "  fine  writ- 
ing." It  is  to  this  tendency  that  we  owe  such 
phrases  as,  "After  the  customary  salutations  he 
sought  the  arms  of  Morpheus,"  and  "  Upon  rising 
in  the  morning  he  partook  of  an  abundant  repast," 

193 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

when  the  author  meant  merely  to  say,  "  After  say- 
ing good  night  he  went  to  bed,"  and  "  He  break- 
fasted." This  error  is  due  to  the  mistaken  idea  that 
things  which  are  common  are  necessarily  vulgar,  and 
to  an  absurd  squeamish  objection  to  "  call  a  spade, 
a  spade."  It  is  the  worst  possible  way  to  handle 
commonplaces,  for  it  attracts  particular  attention  to 
the  very  things  which  it  is  supposed  to  hide. 

But  the  writer  may  purposely  subordinate  com- 
monplace facts,  and  yet  suffer  from  a  commonplace 
style,  if  he  fails  to  give  his  narrative  character.  It 
is  then  that  the  young  writer  resorts  to  the  use  of 
poetry,  quoted  and  original,  with  which  he  inter- 
lards his  stories  and  the  speeches  of  his  characters. 
The  poetry  may  be  good,  even  if  it  is  original,  and 
it  may  be  very  apt,  but  few  people  in  real  life  quote 
poetry  in  their  ordinary  speech.  You  may  be  well 
read  in  poetry  and  the  kindred  arts,  but  it  is  hardly 
the  part  of  modesty  or  discretion  for  you  to  force 
your  quotations  upon  a  reader  who  very  likely  cares 
neither  for  your  erudition  nor  the  poets  themselves. 
It  is  bad  technically,  too;  and  usually,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  following  specimen,  shows  that  the  au- 
thor has  a  wider  acquaintance  with  the  poets  than 
with  the  rhetoricians. 

194 


THE  STYLE 

Algernon  Long  was  not  a  person  of  unbalanced  mind, 
nor  was  he  superstitious  in  his  interpretations  of  signs, 
visions  and  dreams  to  which  so  many  attach  supernat- 
ural importance ;  he  was  simply  a  successful  man  of  the 
world,  full  of  life  and  buoyancy,  devoted  to  his  occupa- 
tion, that  of  a  stock-broker,  and  to  his  domestic  and 
social  relations.  And  yet  he  believed  with  Lord  Byron, 
that 

"  Our  life  is  twofold ;  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  that  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears  and  tortures  and  the  touch  of  joy; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils. 
They  do  divide  our  being, 
They  speak  like  sibyls  of  the  future." 

A  number  of  his  most  cherished  friends  had  recently 
passed  away  into  that  "  undiscovered  country,  from 
whose  bourne  no  traveller  returns."  The  loss  to  him 
was  intolerable ;  the  experience  the  most  painful  he  had 
ever  known.  Each  case  seemed  more  cruel  than  its 
predecessor ;  to  himself  personally  most  suggestive.  He 
was  now  in  mature  manhood,  and  could  thoroughly  ap- 
preciate the  poet's  lines : 

"  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest, 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal." 

So  strong  is  the  tendency  of  the  short  story  to- 
ward simplicity  that  even  figures  of  speech  are  to 
be  avoided.;  -This  does  not  mean  that  we  are  care- 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

fully  to  discard  any  expression  which  savors  of 
the  figurative:  such  a  thing  would  be  absurd,  for 
literature  and  everyday  speech  abound  in  figurative 
language  which  passes  current  unquestioned.  But 
figures  which  are  introduced  simply  for  literary  ef- 
fect are  unnatural,  and  so  are  to  be  avoided.  They 
are  really  digressions,  excrescences — beautiful 
enough  in  themselves,  perhaps,  but  assuredly  adding 
no  beauty  to  the  narrative.  Principal  among  such 
figures  employed  by  amateurs  are  the  long  com- 
plex metaphors  and  similes  in  which  epic  poetry  de- 
lights ;  the  figure  of  apostrophe,  too,  is  much  affected 
by  tyros,  because  it  affords  them  opportunity  to  coin 
orotund  phrases  concerning  the  irony  of  fate,  the 
haplessness  of  true  lovers,  and  kindred  favorite 
topics. 

Z^Foreign  words  and  phrases  form  another  sad 
stumbling  block  in  the  way  of  a  simple  natural  style. 
They  have  their  uses,  of  course — and  one  is  to  be- 
tray the  novice^7  He  fondly  imagines  that  a  sprink- 
ling of  French  phrases  gives  his  narrative  a  delight- 
ful air  of  cosmopolitanism;  and  that  as  an  evidence 
of  "  culture  "  a  line  from  Horace  or  Homer  is  equal 
to  a  college  degree.  So  he  thumbs  the  back  of  his 
dictionary,  culls  therefrom  trite  quotations  with 

196 


THE  STYLE 

which  to  deck  his  writing,  and  never  uses  an  English 
word  when  he  knows  a  similar  French  one.  The  em- 
ployment of  a  foreign  word  or  phrase  to  express  an 
idea  which  can  be  equally  well  couched  in  English  is 
the  cheapest  sort  of  a  literary  trick,  and  it  is  the 
unmistakable  badge  of  hopeless  mediocrity  and  self- 
complacency.  Expressions  from  other  languages 
may  be  judiciously  and  legitimately  used  to  give 
local  color,  and  they  are,  of  course,  indispensable  in 
the  speeches  of  certain  character  types;;  but  as  a  rule 
there  is  no  better  medium  for  your  thoughts  than 
good  wholesome  English?) 

You  will  notice  that  I  specify  the  sort  of  English 
you  should  use,  for  many  who  avoid  foreign  idioms 
fall  into  the  equally  bad  habit  of  using  poor  and 
incorrect  English.  I  am  not  referring  to  the 
speeches  of  the  characters,  whose  privileges  in  this 
respect  I  have  already  discussed;  but  in  the  necessary 
introductory  and  connective  phrases  you  should  take 
exquisite  pains  to  keep  your  English  pure.  ^.The 
use  of  slang  is  of  course  absolutely  inexcusable,  for 
it  offends  against  good  taste  as  well  as  good  rhet- 
oric; but  the  employment  of  words  in  a  careless  or 
perverted  meaning  is  equally  condemnable.^  It  is 
also  a  mistake  to  use  too  many  adjectives,  to  throw 

197 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

every  adjective  and  adverb  into  the  superlative  de- 
gree, and  in  other  ways  to  exaggerate  every  expres- 
sion which  you  use.  Much  of  this  misuse  of  words 
is  due  to  ignorance,  but  more  to  carelessness  or  lazi- 
ness; in  any  case  you  can  detect  your  faults  if  you 
seek  for  them,  and  you  should  take  immediate  steps 
to  correct  them,  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary,  or  a 
rhetoric,  or  both. 

The  style  of  the  short  story  should  be  easy  and 
flowing,  so  that  it  shall  be  pleasant  reading.  Good 
ideas  may  be  expressed  in  good  language  and  still 
be  afflicted  with  a  nervousness  or  stiffness  of  style 
that  will  make  the  work  difficult  of  perusal,  and  so 
lessen  its  power  to  hold  the  reader.  One  of  the  first 
requisites  for  this  desired  ease  is  a  lightness  of 
phrasing  which  is  at  once  a  matter  of  thought  and 
of  rhetorical  construction.  Try  to  avoid  heaviness 
and  austerity  of  thought  as  much  as  you  would  sim- 
ilar qualities  in  writing.  Get  at  the  lighter,  brighter, 
perhaps  more  frivolous  side  of  things;  do  not  take 
your  work  too  seriously,  you  are  seldom  writing 
tragedies  ^permit  yourself  to  be  humorous,  witty,  a 
little  ironical;  klo  not  plunge  too  deeply  into  dark 
abysses  of  metaphysics  or  theology.  I  do  not  mean 
that  you  should  not  treat  of  serious  things,  or  that 

198 


THE  STYLE 

you  should  make  light  of  serious  subjects;  but  there 
are  several  ways  of  looking  at  any  matter,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  intense  and  morbid  gloom  which  Poe 
casts  over  so  many  of  his  weird  tales  is  not  char- 
acteristic of  the  short  story  in  general.  At  the  same 
time  I  am  far  from  advocating  flippancy  or  super- 
ficiality, for  both  are  deadly  sins  in  literature.  I 
merely  wish  to  impress  upon  you  the  absurdity  of 
the  solemn  tone  which  some  amateurs  seem  to  think 
a  mark  of  depth  of  thought  or  feeling.  An  apt, 
simple  phrase  is  the  most  forceful  means  of  expres- 
sion known  to  literature. 

•-.Your  bright  thoughts  should  be  expressed  in 
words  and  sentences  which  are  in  themselves  light 
and  easy.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  difference  be- 
tween words  which  may  mean  the  same  thing,  and 
it  is  not  altogether  a  matter  of  length.  Words 
which  are  heavy  and  lumbering,  or  harsh,  or  sug- 
gestive of  unpleasant  thoughts,  should  be  used  with 
care,  for  their  thoughtless  introduction  will  often  in- 
jure the  ease  of  a  passage.  Tone  color  in  words  is 
oi  almost  as  much  importance  in  prose  as  in  verse. 
Similarly  the  sentence  structure  should  be  care- 
fully tested  for  ease.  The  periodic  style  should  be 
practically  tabooed:  it  is  seldom  appropriate  to  the 

199 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

matter  of  the  short  story,  and  it  is  always  heavy  and 
retarding.  The  very  short  sentence,  which  is  so 
typical  of  the  French,  may  be  used  only  in  modera- 
tion, for  its  excessive  employment  gives  a  nervous 
jerky  style  which  is  tiresome  and  irritating.  Among 
American  writers  Stephen  Crane  is  an  awful  ex- 
ample of  this  "  bumpety-bump  "  method  of  expres- 
sion, though  his  later  works  show  a  tendency  to 
greater  ease.  (The  exclamatory  and  interrogative 
sentences,  of  which  amateurs  use  so  many,  under 
the  mistaken  impression  that  they  lend  vivacity  and 
vividness,  should  be  totally  eschewec£>  They  of- 
fend against  almost  every  principle  of  the  short  story, 
and  they  have  nothing  to  recommend  them.  Usu- 
ally they  are  irrelevant  and  inartistic  asides  by  the 
author.  The  proper  sentence  structure  for  the  bulk 
of  the  short  story  is  the  simple  straightforward  de- 
clarative sentence,  rather  loose,  of  medium  length, 
tending  to  short  at  times  to  avoid  monotony  and  give 
vividness. 

Exclamation  points  must  be  used  sparingly:  a 
row  of  three  or  four  of  them  at  the  end  of  a  sen- 
tence is  a  sign  of  amateurism.  The  mere  presence 
of  a  point  of  punctuation  will  not  make  a  thrilling 
sentence  or  produce  a  climax.  Punctuation  marks 

200 


THE  STYLE 

are  designed  to  draw  attention  to  what  already  ex- 
ists, and  they  have  no  inherent  power  to  create  in- 
terest. Very  few  sentences  really  need  or  merit  a 
mark  of  exclamation ;  and  if  they  are  properly  con- 
structed the  reader  will  feel  the  exclamatory  force, 
whether  the  point  is  expressed  or  not.  Italics,  as 
a  method  of  emphasis,  are  seldom  necessary  in  a 
well-written  story.  They,  too,  are  signs  of  what 
has  already  been  expressed,  and  not  the  expression 
of  a  new  force.  A  word  or  a  phrase  which  needs 
sufficient  emphasis  to  excuse  italics  should  be  so 
placed  that  the  reader  will  involuntarily  give  it  the 
proper  stress;  and  an  expression  thus  brought  into 
notice  far  exceeds  in  importance  one  which  owes  its 
prominence  to  a  mere  change  in  type.  Words  in 
still  more  staring  type — small  capitals  or  capitals — 
are  entirely  out  of  place. 

Finally,  the  style  of  the  short  story  should  be  con- 
cise. "  One  of  the  difficulties  of  the  short  story,  the 
short  story  shares  with  the  actual  drama,  and  that 
is  the  indispensableness  of  compression — the  need 
that  every  sentence  shall  tell."  *  It  is  not  sufficient 
that  all  irrelevant  ideas  be  carefully  pruned  away; 


*  "  The  Short  Story,"  by  Frederick  Wedmore.    Nineteenth 
Century.    Mar.,  '98. 

201 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

all  unnecessary  fullness  of  expression  must  likewise 
be  cut,  that  the  phrasing  of  the  story  may  always 
be  crisp  and  to  the  point.  This  is  sometimes  a  mat- 
ter of  the  expunging  of  a  superfluous  word  or 
phrase;  but  it  is  fully  as  often  a  recasting  of  a  sen- 
tence so  as  to  avoid  redundancy.  The  object  of 
this  conciseness  is  twofold :  to  waste  as  little  as  pos- 
sible of  the  valuable  and  abridged  space  of  the  short 
story,  and  to  make  the  movement  of  the  language  as 
quick  as  the  action  of  the  plot. 

The  fault  to  be  avoided  here  is  commonly  called 
"  padding."  Briefly  speaking  the  term  padding,  as 
applied  to  a  piece  of  literature,  denotes  the  presence 
of  irrelevant  matter.  It  may  consist  of  the  introduc- 
tion of  scenes,  persons,  episodes,  conversations  or 
general  observations  which  have  no  part  in  advanc- 
ing the  action;  or,  more  dangerous  still,  it  may 
consist  of  the  presence  of  occasional  words  and 
phrases  which  lengthen  and  perhaps  round  out  the 
sentences  without  adding  to  their  value.  Irrele- 
vant scenes,  persons,  episodes,  conversations  and 
general  observations  have  already  been  discussed  at 
length,  and  need  no  further  treatment  here.  But 
I  must  warn  the  novice  against  that  most  insidious 
form  of  padding  which  is  responsible  for  so  many 

202 


THE  STYLE 

long  and  dreary  sentences,  cluttered  with  repeti- 
tious words  and  phrases  which  retard  the  narrative 
and  exasperate  the  reader.  This  redundancy  is  a 
rhetorical  fault,  which  is  best  corrected  by  a  re- 
turn to  the  old  school  day  methods  of  testing  a 
sentence  for  coherence.  It  must  be  corrected,  and 
that  vigorously  and  radically,  for  it  is  fatal  to  a 
good  short  story  style.  An  instance  of  how  much 
stress  editors  lay  upon  procuring  only  the  "  concen- 
trated extract  of  the  story-teller's  art  "  may  be  found 
in  a  letter  received  by  a  young  writer  from  the  edi- 
tor of  a  prominent  publication :  "  We  will  pay  $100 
for  your  story  as  it  is.  If  you  can  reduce  it  a  third, 
we  will  pay  you  $150;  if  a  half,  $200." 

Concise  must  not  be  understood  to  mean  ex- 
haustive, for  it  is  bad  policy  to  leave  nothing  to  the 
imagination  of  the  reader.  The  average  person  is 
fond  of  reading  between  the  lines,  and  usually 
prides  himself  upon  his  ability  in  this  respect;  ac- 
cordingly he  is  easily  exasperated  with  the  exhaustive 
style  which  leaves  no  chance  for  the  exercise  of  his 
subtle  power,  while  he  takes  huge  delight  in  ex- 
panding the  sly  hints  which  the  knowing  writer 
throws  out  for  his  benefit.  Such  a  reader  never 
stops  to  consider  that  he  has  fallen  into  a  skillfully 

203 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

laid  trap;  he  compliments  the  author  upon  his  artis- 
tic method  and  turns  from  the  story  well  pleased 
with  himself  and  with  the  writer.  There  is,  how- 
ever, something  more  than  a  pampering  of  pride  in 
the  charm  of  this  suggestive  method :  it  enables  the 
writer  to  cast  a  light  veil  of  uncertainty  over  rather 
bald  facts,  and  thus  to  maintain  that  romantic  gla- 
mour of  unreality  which  plays  so  important  a  part 
in  fiction. 

A  good  style  can  be  acquired  by  the  exercise  of 
knowledge,  patience  and  labor.  The  first  requisite 
is  a  practical  working  knowledge  of  rhetoric  and 
English  composition.  It  seems  absurd  to  suppose 
that  any  one  would  attempt  to  write  stories  without 
being  able  to  write  correct  English,  but  at  least 
two-thirds  of  the  stories  submitted  to  editors  con- 
tain inexcusable  grammatical  and  rhetorical  errors; 
and  many  of  the  faults  which  I  have  found  it  neces- 
sary to  discuss  in  the  first  part  of  this  chapter  are 
matters  of  rhetoric.  If  you  cannot  write  correct 
English  now,  set  about  perfecting  yourself  in  that 
respect  before  you  dare  to  essay  story  telling.  There 
are  books  and  correspondence  courses  galore  which 
will  assist  you.  If  you  won't  do  that  you  had  better 
turn  your  energies  in  some  other  direction,  for  you 

204 


THE  STYLE 

have  neither  the  courage  nor  the  spirit  necessary 
for  a  successful  short  story  writer. 

Your  next  duty  is  to  cultivate  your  individuality. 
"  Style  is  the  personal  impress  which  a  writer  in- 
evitably sets  upon  his  production.  It  is  that  char- 
acter in  what  is  written  which  results  from  the 
fact  that  these  thoughts  and  emotions  have  been  those 
of  the  author  rather  than  of  any  other  human  being. 
It  is  the  expression  of  one  man's  individuality,  as 
sure  and  as  unique  as  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  look 
from  his  eye,  or  the  imprint  of  his  thumb."  * 
Every  person  who  has  any  call  to  write  has  a  strong 
personality — an  original  manner  of  looking  at  life 
and  of  treating  its  problems.  He  wishes  so  to  in- 
fluence the  world  by  this  personality  that  it  will  con- 
sent to  see  through  his  eyes,  or  will  at  least  listen 
patiently  to  what  he  sees.  It  is  this  ego,  this  that  is 
the  man  himself,  that  he  really  desires  to  show 
through  his  writings.  His  first  step,  then,  is  to 
cultivate  this  individuality,  to  train  his  originality, 
so  to  speak,  in  order  that  he  may  see  everything  in 
a  new  and  distinctive  light.  He  should  also  give 
attention  to  the  expression  of  his  personality.  It 


*  "Talks  on  Writing  English,"  by  Arlo  Bates.    Chapter 
on  "Style." 

•05 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

is  not  sufficient  that  he  shall  see  life  at  a  new  angle, 
but  he  must  so  train  himself  that  he  shall  be  able  to 
put  in  an  original  way  the  new  phases  which  his  in- 
dividuality has  discovered.  It  is  this  expression  of 
the  individuality  which  causes  so  much  trouble,  for 
hundreds  of  stories  are  written  which  show  origi- 
nality in  conception,  but  which  fall  into  convention- 
ality in  the  execution.  The  best  way  to  express  your 
personality  is  to  be  perfectly  natural,  and  say  ex- 
actly what  you  think;  any  labored  striving  after 
effects  will  produce  an  artificial  style  which  will  be 
fatal  to  success. 

It  is  a  great  aid  to  the  attainment  of  a  good  style 
thoroughly  to  understand  your  own  mind  before  you 
put  pen  to  paper.  It  may  seem  odd  that  you  should 
be  ignorant  of  your  own  ideas  on  a  subject,  but 
often  difficulty  of  expression  is  due  to  indecision 
of  mind.  Vagueness  or  confusion  of  ideas  in  a 
writer's  mind  is  always  the  precursor  of  a  poor  style. 
Too  often,  struck  by  a  happy  thought,  he  attempts 
to  put  it  on  paper  before  it  has  yet  sufficient  defi- 
niteness  of  form  to  justify  expression,  and  when 
he  would  project  it  into  writing  he  loses  the  thought 
in  a  mass  of  the  very  words  in  which  he  seeks  to 
voice  it.  Again,  the  writer's  mind  may  contain  sev- 

206 


THE  STYLE 

eral  jumbled  ideas,  each  one  good  in  itself  but  to- 
tally independent  of  the  others;  and  if  he  attempts 
to  express  any  particular  one  before  it  has  had  time 
to  disentangle  itself,  it  is  bound  to  bring  with  it  por- 
tions of  other  and  distinct  ideas.  Clear  thinking 
is  the  basis  of  clear  writing;  and  clear  writing  pre- 
vents the  chief  errors  that  threaten  your  style. 

Study  the  stories  of  great  writers;  you  know  what 
parts  most  trouble  you — compare  your  work  with 
that  of  others  and  see  how  they  have  obtained  the 
effect  that  you  desire  to  produce.  It  is  not  wise  to 
limit  your  study  to  any  one  writer.  Your  style 
should  possess  a  certain  flexibility,  to  enable  it  to 
adapt  itself  readily  to  your  varying  themes,  and 
you  should  master  the  methods  of  all  good  writers; 
if  you  have  sufficient  individuality  to  have  any  ex- 
cuse for  writing  you  need  have  little  fear  of  imi- 
tating them  too  closely.  For  style  alone  it  is  bet- 
ter to  confine  yourself  to  the  more  modern  writers. 
There  is  always  a  change  in  style,  if  not  exactly  a 
progression,  from  one  literary  generation  to  the  next, 
and  you  should  aim  at  conformity  to  the  canons 
of  your  own  age.  Those  early  masters  of  the  short 
story,  Irving,  Hawthorne  and  Poe,  had  a  tendency 
toward  a  diffuse,  almost  discursive  style,  which  is 

207 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

not  much  in  vogue  now.  Their  ease  and  elegance 
are  most  commendable,  but  they  lost  somewhat  more 
in  force  and  conciseness  than  is  thought  correct  to- 
day. 


XII 
THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

BECAUSE  literature  is  an  art  and  you  have  a  lean- 
ing toward  it,  do  not  therefore  consider  yourself  a 
genius  and  so  exempt  from  work.  There  is  no  royal 
road  to  success,  and  no  one  ever  yet  won  a  high  place 
in  the  world  of  letters  who  did  not  earn  it  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow.  In  these  days  literature  is  just 
as  much  a  trade  as  boilermaking :  it  has  its  tools  and 
its  rules;  and  if  one  likes  his  occupation,  he  will 
naturally  make  better  stories — or  boilers.  That  is  all 
there  is  to  genius — the  matter  of  aptitude  for  a  cer- 
tain thing;  and  even  that  can  be  to  a  great  degree 
cultivated.  If  a  man,  with  absolutely  no  knowledge 
of  the  tools  and  methods  of  the  craft,  attempt  to 
make  a  boiler,  he  will  create  a  deal  of  noise  but  no 
boilers,  though  he  may  be  well  pleased  with  his  own 
efforts;  and  so  it  is  with  writing. 

So  even  if  your  literary  efforts  are  praised  by 
friends  and  published  by  local  editors,  don't  get 
the  idea  into  your  head  that  the  world  at  large  is 

209 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

sighing  for  the  products  of  your  pen :  it  is  far  more 
likely  that  your  friends'  encouragement  is  prompted 
rather  by  regard  for  you  than  by  any  real  merit  in 
your  work,  and  that  the  editor's  chief  desire  is  to 
get  cheap  copy.  You  will  learn  later  that  the  truest 
estimate  of  your  work  comes  from  those  who  know 
you  the  least,  and  that  usually  criticism  is  valuable  in 
inverse  proportion  to  the  regard  which  the  critic  has 
for  you.  If,  however,  you  feel  that,  whatever  the 
real  worth  of  your  present  work,  there  is  that  within 
you  which  demands  utterance,  you  will  modestly 
accept  this  early  adulation  as  prophetic  of  the  true 
fame  to  come,  and  will  go  about  your  writing  in  all 
humility  and  seriousness,  with  that  careful,  plod- 
ding application  which  alone  succeeds. 

Since  as  a  story  writer  you  purpose  handling  life 
in  all  its  varied  phases,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
acquire  an  intimate  knowledge  of  it.  This  you  may 
do  in  several  ways,  as  already  indicated  in  Chap- 
ter V.,  but  do  it  you  must,  and  seriously.  You  must 
have  in  your  possession  and  ready  for  instant  use 
a  large  and  varied  assortment  of  facts,  incidents, 
odd  characters,  impressions,  and  all  the  other  mis- 
cellaneous details  that  go  to  the  making  of  a  good 
story.  However  you  may  gain  this  material  it  i$ 

aio 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

best  not  to  depend  too  much  on  your  memory  to  re- 
tain it  and  to  produce  it  promptly  at  the  proper 
time.  The  human  memory  is  apt  to  be  treacherous 
and  unreliable.  It  will  very  likely  fail  to  retain 
the  important  details  of  a  usable  actual  occurrence,  as 
well  as  the  bright  idea  in  connection  with  it  which 
flashed  across  your  mind  when  first  you  found  it. 
The  only  safe  way  is  for  you  to  keep  a  scrap  book 
and  a  note  book,  or  perhaps  a  combination  of  the 
two,  in  which  you  may  preserve  crude  material, 
bright  ideas,  and  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  which 
you  think  may  be  of  use  to  you  at  some  future  day. 
Much  that  you  carefully  preserve  will  never  be  of 
service  to  you,  but  you  cannot  afford  to  risk  losing 
possible  good  matter  through  failure  to  make  note 
of  it.  "  I  would  counsel  the  young  writer  to  keep 
a  note  book,  and  to  make,  as  regards  the  use  of  it, 
milla  dies  sine  linea  his  revered  motto.  It  is  a  great 
deal  better  that  he  should  have  his  notes  too  copious 
than  too  meagre.  By  filling  page  after  page  with 
jottings  of  thoughts,  fancies,  impressions,  even 
doubts  and  surmises  of  the  vaguest  kind — of  a  kind 
which  he  himself  can  only  understand  at  the  time 
and  perhaps  may  afterward  fail  to  recollect  when  re- 


211 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

reading  them — he  will  never,  in  the  long  run,  ac- 
count himself  a  loser."  * 

When  finally  putting  your  ideas  into  concrete 
form  do  not  depend  too  much  on  the  "  moment  of 
inspiration."  It  is  not  my  intention  to  ridicule  this 
most  valuable  incentive  to  artistic  work.  I  believe 
in  it  thoroughly  when  it  is  genuine,  and  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  take  all  advantage  of  it.  Dash  off  your 
story  as  swiftly  as  you  will — the  swifter  the  better, 
for  if  it  runs  easily  from  your  pen  it  stands  a  better 
chance  of  being  spontaneous.  But  we  are  not  all  of 
us  gifted  with  the  ability  to  work  in  this  manner, 
nor  will  all  themes  permit  of  such  treatment.  A 
short  story  that  you  can  rush  through  at  a  sitting 
should  be  viewed  with  skepticism :  either  it  is  a  per- 
fect work  of  genius,  and  you  have  a  Heaven-sent 
call  to  write;  or,  and  more  probably,  it  is  too  trite 
and  trivial  to  justify  the  expenditure  of  serious  la- 
bor upon  it,  and  your  "  inspiration  "  was  merely  a 
flush  of  vanity.  "  As  for  trusting  to  the  '  inspired 
moment,'  or  waiting  for  it,  or  deploring  its  delay, 
he  (the  young  author)  should  take  heed  how  he 
permits  any  such  folly  or  superstition  to  clutch  him 

*  "  Some  Advice  to  Young  Authors,"  by  Edward  Fawcett. 
The  Independent.    May  14,  '96. 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

in  its  vitiating  grasp.  '  Inspiration '  either  means, 
with  a  writer,  good  mental  and  physical  health,  or  it 
has  no  meaning  whatever.  .  .  .  Late  hours  and 
stimulants  are  especially  fatal  to  the  young  writer 
when  both  are  employed  in  the  sense  of  literary  co- 
adjutors." * 

"  There  is,  I  believe,  no  greater  fallacy  than  trust- 
ing to  inspiration,  except  that  of  believing  that  a 
certain  mood  is  necessary  for  writing.  Ninety-nine 
hundredths  of  the  best  literary  work  is  done  by  men 
who  write  to  live,  who  know  that  they  must  write, 
and  who  do  write,  whether  the  weather  is  fine  or 
rainy,  whether  they  like  their  breakfast  or  not, 
whether  they  are  hot  or  cold,  whether  they  are  in 
love,  happily  or  unhappily,  with  women  or  them- 
selves. Of  course,  a  man  who  has  lived  by  his  pen 
for  years,  finds  out  by  experience  the  hours  for  work- 
ing which  suit  him  best;  but  a  beginner  should  be 
methodical.  He  should  go  to  his  desk  as  any  other 
workman  goes  to  his  work,  after  breakfast;  rest 
and  eat  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  work  again 
in  the  afternoon.  He  should  never  begin  by  writ- 
ing at  night,  unless  he  is  obliged  to  do  so.  He 

* "  Some  Advice  to  Young  Authors,"  by  Edgar  Fawcett. 
The  Independent.  May  14,  '96. 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

will,  of  course,  often  sit  at  the  table  for  an  hour 
or  more  without  writing  a  word,  but  if  he  will  only 
think  conscientiously  of  what  he  meant  to  do,  he 
will  find  the  way  to  do  it.  The  evening  is  the  time 
to  read,  and  the  night  is  the  time  to  sleep."* 

This  dependence  on  genius  and  inspiration  is  one 
of  the  reasons  why  the  world  is  so  full  of  unliterary 
writers,  and  why  so  many  of  real  talent  fail  of  suc- 
cess. It  is  very  easy,  in  the  flush  of  composition,  to 
consider  yourself  gifted  above  your  fellows,  and  to 
go  on  writing  reams  of  bosh  that  even  you  would 
despise,  if  you  could  view  it  with  an  unprejudiced 
eye;  and  it  is  equally  easy  to  persuade  yourself  that 
anything  that  comes  from  your  pen  must  be  inca- 
pable of  improvement,  and  that  if  your  writings  sell, 
you  have  reached  the  goal.  But  either  delusion  is 
fatal.  In  short,  "  inspiration  "  and  all  its  attendant 
follies  are  but  the  conventional  accompaniments 
of  literary  toil,  which  may  be  affected  by  the  dilet- 
tante for  the  furthering  of  his  pretense  at  art,  but 
which  have  no  place  in  the  thoughts  or  plans  of  the 
serious  worker. 

Such  inspiration  as  you  may  need  to  keep  your 


*  "  The  Art  of  Authorship."    Edited  by  George  Bainton. 
Chapter  by  F.  Marion  Crawford. 

314 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

work  fresh  and  artistic  will  come  to  you  from  the 
zeal  and  interest  with  which  you  approach  your  task. 
If  you  go  to  it  half-heartedly,  lazy  in  body  and  mind, 
and  ready  at  the  first  opportunity  to  put  it  all  off 
till  the  morrow,  you  will  accomplish  little,  then  or 
ever;  but  if,  on  the  contrary,  you  will  square  your- 
self to  your  writing  as  to  a  physical  labor,  and  will 
concentrate  all  the  powers  and  energies  of  your  mind 
upon  the  work  in  hand,  the  very  force  of  your  will 
and  your  desire  will  create  within  you  an  enthusiasm 
which  will  be  of  far  more  practical  value  to  you 
than  any  cheap  inspiration  drawn  from  some  Par- 
nassian spring.  You  can,  in  fact,  by  this  very  busi- 
ness-like method  of  working,  create  on  demand  a 
species  of  inspiration,  or  mental  vigor,  which  will 
enable  you,  not  exactly  to  dash  off  a  masterpiece 
with  no  real  effort  on  your  part,  but  to  achieve  by 
actual  labor  those  things  which  you  desire  to  do. 
There  is  much,  too,  in  going  to  your  work  regularly, 
even  as  a  carpenter  to  his  bench;  for  the  mental 
processes  that  produce  good  short  stories  are  capa- 
ble of  cultivation  and  control;  and,  like  all  func- 
tions of  the  brain,  they  approach  the  nearest  'co  per- 
fection when  they  fall  into  something  of  a  routine 
of  habit.  Indeed,  they  may  be  so  far  regulated  that 

215 


at  the  usual  hour  for  their  exercise  they  will  be  not 
only  active  but  urgent,  so  that  you  will  go  to  your 
work  with  an  appetite  as  hearty  as  that  with  which 
you  welcome  the  dinner  hour. 

Do  not  be  afraid  of  the  manual  labor  of  author- 
ship— the  writing  and  rewriting,  the  testing  and  cor- 
recting, the  persistent  and  thorough  "  licking  into 
shape  "  which  gives  the  final  polish  to  your  work. 
Never  send  an  editor  a  penciled,  smutched,  and  dis- 
orderly MS.,  with  a  note  saying,  "  I  just  dashed  this 
off  last  night  and  send  it  right  on."  Such  work  is 
foredoomed  to  failure.  But  when  your  story  is 
finished  lay  it  away  without  even  reading  it  over 
and  let  it  get  "  cold;  "  leave  it  for  a  week,  or  two 
weeks,  or  even  longer  if  possible — don't  even  think 
of  it;  then  bring  it  forth  and  read  it  over  carefully 
and  critically,  take  your  blue  pencil,  harden  your 
heart,  and  rework  it  ruthlessly.  In  the  first  draft 
you  are  bound  to  slight  certain  places  or  to  make 
certain  errors,  which  you  would  correct  in  the  course 
of  a  careful  revision.  There  will  be  some  half- 
formed  thought  which  will  need  elaboration,  or 
some  word  which  was  not  quite  the  right  one,  but 
which  you  let  pass  lest  you  lose  your  train  of  thought; 
and  there  is  almost  sure  to  be  some  wordiness  which 
will  need  cutting  away. 

216 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

"  For,  if  the  practice  of  composition  be  useful, 
the  laborious  work  of  correcting  is  no  less  so:  it 
is  indeed  absolutely  necessary  to  our  reaping  any 
benefit  from  the  habit  of  composition.  What  we 
have  written  should  be  laid  by  for  some  little  time, 
till  the  ardor  of  composition  be  past,  till  the  fond- 
ness for  the  expressions  we  have  used  be  worn  off, 
and  the  expressions  themselves  be  forgotten;  and 
then  reviewing  our  work  with  a  cool  and  critical 
eye,  as  if  it  were  the  performance  of  another,  we 
shall  discern'  many  imperfections  which  at  first  es- 
caped us.  Then  is  the  right  season  for  pruning  re- 
dundances; for  weighing  the  arrangement  of  sen- 
tences; for  attending  to  the  junctures  and  connect- 
ing particles;  and  bringing  style  into  a  regular,  cor- 
rect, and  supported  form.  This  '  Limae  Labor '  must 
be  submitted  to  by  all  who  communicate  their 
thoughts  with  proper  advantage  to  others ;  and  some 
practice  in  it  will  soon  sharpen  their  eye  to  the  most 
necessary  objects  of  attention,  and  render  it  a  much 
more  easy  and  practicable  work  than  might  at  first 
be  imagined."  * 

It  is  this  last  careful,  minute  testing  and  polish- 
ing which  will  determine  whether  or  no  you  are  se- 

* "  Lectures   on    Rhetoric    and    Belles    Letters,"   by  .Hugh 
Blair.    Lecture  XIX. 

217 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

rious  in  your  endeavor  to  break  into  literature,  for 
here  the  real  labor  of  authorship  begins.  All  that 
went  before  was  simply  child's  play  compared  to  this 
grubbing,  plodding,  tinkering,  and  patching,  and 
pottering;  so  if  you  have  no  stomach  for  this,  you 
had  better  learn  a  trade.  "  Whatever  you  do,  take 
pains  with  it.  Try  at  least  to  write  good  English : 
learn  to  criticise  and  correct  your  work:  put  your 
best  into  every  sentence.  If  you  are  too  lazy  and 
careless  to  do  that,  better  go  into  a  trade  or  politics : 
it  is  easier  to  become  a  Congressman  or  millionaire 
than  a  real  author,  and  we  have  too  many  bad  story- 
tellers as  it  is."  *  If  you  will  pursue  this  labor  of 
revision  courageously  you  will  speedily  find  an  im- 
provement in  the  quality  of  your  finished  work.  You 
will  also  find  that  your  manuscripts  need  less  after 
attention,  for  the  lessons  learned  in  these  careful  re- 
workings  will  be  unconsciously  applied  during  com- 
position. 

"  From  the  alphabetic  slovenliness  which  will  not 
form  its  letters  legibly  nor  put  in  its  commas,  to  the 
lack  of  self-acquaintance  which  results  in  total  dis- 
ability to  judge  one's  own  products,  it  is  too  con- 
stantly in  evidence  that  those  who  aspire  to  feed 

*  "  Bad  Story-Telling,"  by  Frederick  M.  Bird.    Lippincotfs. 

Oct.,  '97. 

218 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

other  minds  are  themselves  in  need  of  discipline. 
....  It  is  within  bounds  to  say  that  not  one  ac- 
cepted manuscript  out  of  ten  is  fit  to  go  to  the  printer 
as  it  stands."*  Do  not  be  so  lazy  or  so  careless  as 
to  slight  the  little  things,  the  mere  mechanical  de- 
tails, which  go  to  make  a  perfect  story  and  a  pre- 
sentable manuscript.  "  There  are  several  distinct 
classes  of  errors  to  look  for:  faults  of  grammar, 
such  as  the  mixing  of  figures  of  speech.  Faults  of 
agreement  of  verbs  and  participles  in  number  when 
collective  nouns  are  referred  to.  Faults  of  rhetoric, 
such  as  the  mixing  of  moods  and  tenses,  and  the 
taste,  such  as  the  use  of  words  with  a  disagreeable  or 
misleading  atmosphere  about  them,  though  their 
strict  meaning  makes  their  use  correct  enough. 
Faults  of  repetition  of  the  same  word  in  differing 
senses  in  the  same  sentence  or  paragraph.  Faults 
of  tediousness  of  phrasing  or  explanation.  Faults 
of  lack  of  clearness  in  expressing  the  exact  mean- 
ing. Faults  of  sentimental  use  of  language,  that  is, 
falling  into  fine  phrases  which  have  no  distinct 
meaning — the  most  discordant  fault  of  all.  Faults 
of  digression  in  the  structure  of  the  story."f 

*  Ibid. 

f  "  How  to  Write  Fiction."    Anonymous.     Bellaires  &  Co., 
London.    Part  II.     Chapter  IV. 

219 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

Faults  in  grammar  and  rhetoric  are  too  easily  cor- 
rected to  be  allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  suc- 
cess, and  I  have  already  showed  you  how  you  may 
perfect  yourself  in  these  essentials.  For  they  are 
essentials,  and  so  much  more  important  than  many 
young  writers  think,  that  I  believe  I  am  perfectly 
safe  in  saying  that  no  one  who  makes  glaring  rhe- 
torical or  grammatical  errors  has  ever  written  a  suc- 
cessful short  story.  In  spelling,  too,  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  excuse  for  errors;  you  surely  know  if  you 
are  weak  in  this  respect,  and  the  use  of  even  a  small 
dictionary  will  enable  you  to  avoid  mistakes.  Every 
magazine  has  its  own  rules  for  punctuation  and  par- 
agraphing, in  accordance  with  which  an  accepted 
MS.  is  edited  before  it  is  given  to  the  compositor; 
but  that  is  no  good  reason  why  you  should  neglect 
to  prepare  your  MS.  properly.  The  general  rules 
are  few  and  easily  understood,  and  they  enable  you 
to  give  your  work  definite  form  and  arrangement, 
and  make  it  much  more  easy  to  read.  An  editor  who 
finds  a  MS.  lacking  in  these  lesser  essentials  will  be 
apt  to  throw  it  aside  with  but  a  superficial  perusal, 
naturally  judging  that  it  will  also  lack  the  higher 
attributes. 

Finally,  just  before  sending  your  story  out  for 

220 


THE  LABOR  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

editorial  consideration,  go  over  it  once  more  with 
the  utmost  care  and  painstakingly  test  every  para- 
graph, every  sentence,  every  word,  to  see  first  if  it 
is  necessary,  and  second  if  it  is  right.  If  at  any 
point  you  find  yourself  questioning  what  you  have 
written,  do  not  call  your  work  complete  until  you 
have  revised  it,  not  only  to  your  own  satisfaction, 
but  so  that  you  honestly  feel  that  the  reader,  too, 
will  be  satisfied.  If  you  cannot  at  the  time  arrive 
at  a  satisfactory  expression  of  your  thought,  put 
the  story  aside  for  the  time  being  and  try  again  later 
when  you  can  come  to  it  afresh.  It  is  this  un- 
wearied labor  which  in  the  end  spells  success. 


221 


XIII 
THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

EVEN  when  his  story  is  complete  the  writer  has 
not  yet  come  to  the  end  of  his  difficulties,  for  he 
has  still  to  find  a  market  for  his  work.  Since  he  is 
writing  for  publication,  and  not  for  the  mere  love 
of  composition,  this  quest  of  a  market  is  an  im- 
portant matter,  for  by  his  success  in  this  respect  the 
writer  must  judge  his  chances  of  ultimate  and  ma- 
terial success  as  a  short  story  writer.  There  is  no 
disputing  the  fact  that  good  work  will  find  accep- 
tance eventually,  but  sometimes  the  delay  is  so  long 
that  the  writer  almost  loses  hope.  He  usually  goes 
about  marketing  his  wares  in  a  haphazard  fashion; 
and  a  warning  word  or  two  at  this  point  may  enable 
him  to  remedy  some  of  the  mistakes  which  may  re- 
tard if  not  prevent  the  success  of  really  meritorious 
work. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  consider  your  story  hon- 
estly and  without  prejudice,  and  make  sure  that  it 
does  deserve  publication.  Get  an  unbiased  opinion 

222 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

on  it  from  some  real  critic,  if  you  can,  and  give  some 
weight  to  what  he  says.  Never,  like  many  novices 
I  have  known,  send  out  a  MS.  with  an  accompanying 
note  saying  that  you  know  your  story  is  not  quite  up 
to  standard,  and  that  you  could  improve  it  if  you  had 
the  time,  but  that  you  hope  the  editor  will  make 
an  exception  in  your  favor  in  order  to  encourage 
you.  Editors  are  not  paid  to  do  that  sort  of  thing; 
and  if  you  yourself  have  not  complete  confidence  in 
your  story  you  have  no  business  to  inflict  it  upon  an 
editor.  If  you  enter  the  profession  of  story  wri- 
ting in  that  spirit  you  will  fail,  absolutely  and  de- 
servedly, to  gain  aught  but  rebuffs  by  your  labors; 
and  indeed,  your  labor  will  be  so  slight  and  half 
hearted  that  you  cannot  honestly  expect  any  satis- 
factory return  from  it. 

Emerson's  advice,  "  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star," 
is  an  excellent  rule  for  the  young  writer.  With  you 
literature  may  be  a  profession  as  well  as  an  art,  but 
you  should  not  permit  yourself  to  be  too  easily  satis- 
fied with  material  success.  Do  not  be  content  just 
because  you  get  your  work  published,  or  because  you 
are  sure  you  write  as  well  as  some  of  your  con- 
temporaries ;  always  try  to  rise  above  the  crowd  and 
to  be  one  of  the  few  who  set  the  standard  for  the 

223 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

multitude.  If  your  stories  are  accepted  by  one  mag- 
azine, try  to  "  break  into  "  another  that  is  a  little 
more  particular;  if  you  succeed  in  one  style  of  liter- 
ature, try  to  win  laurels  in  a  higher  class  of  work. 
It  is  this  constant  striving  that  brings  ultimate  sue-, 
cess — financial  and  artistic.  If  you  allow  yourself 
to  be  easily  content  with  your  work  and  your  re- 
ceipts therefrom,  you  will  speedily  fall  into  a  rut, 
become  "  old  fogy "  and  dull,  and  one  day  will 
find  yourself  with  a  desk  full  of  rejected  MSS.,  and 
no  hope  for  a  brighter  future. 

At  the  same  time,  there  are  almost  as  many  grades 
of  stories  as  there  are  publications  using  them,  and 
with  but  few  exceptions  you  may  endeavor  to  sat- 
isfy all  tastes.  A  story  which  is  too  slight  for  a 
high  class  magazine  may  be  well  adapted  to  the  needs 
of  a  newspaper  syndicate;  and  though  it  would  be 
fatal  for  you  to  take  the  newspaper  story  for  your 
standard,  there  can  be  no  objection  to  your  making 
occasional  contributions  to  that  class  of  literature. 
Indeed,  it  is  probable  that  at  the  outset  you  will  be 
forced  to  content  yourself  with  writing  for  syndi- 
cates  and  minor  magazines,  though  you  may  aim  for 
the  pages  of  the  best  monthlies :  those  old  established 
publications  are  both  conservative  and  overstocked, 

224 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

and  though  they  are  ready  enough  to  examine  MSS., 
they  are  slow  to  accept  the  work  of  a  young  writer. 
But  even  among  the  few  magazines  which  can  be 
called  first  class  there  are  wide  differences  of  opin- 
ion as  to  what  constitutes  a  good  story,  and  a  MS. 
which  one  will  reject  decidedly  another  may  accept 
gladly.  It  is  your  first  business  to  acquaint  your- 
self with  the  general  style  of  the  magazine  to  which 
you  desire  to  contribute;  or,  if  your  story  is  already 
written,  to  make  sure  that  its  acceptance  is  not  for- 
bidden by  the  policy  of  the  publication  to  which  you 
submit  it.  It  is  a  waste  of  time  and  postage  to  send 
a  story  of  adventure  to  a  magazine  which  publishes 
only  tales  of  love. 

The  timeliness,  or  seasonal  appropriateness,  of  a 
story  may  have  much  influence  upon  its  success  in 
the  market.  Each  season  of  the  year  has  its  peculiar 
literature,  and  editors  in  general  place  so  much  stress 
upon  timeliness  that  a  glance  at  the  contents  of  a 
magazine  will  often  tell  you  within  a  month  of  its 
date  of  issue.  There  are  the  blizzard  stories,  which 
are  due  about  January;  and  the  vacation  stories, 
which  begin  to  appear  in  July,  and  the  stories  of 
holly  and  mistletoe  and  stockings,  which  come  with 
the  Christmas  season.  Likewise,  we  have  special, 

225 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

stories  for  New  Years',  St.  Valentine's  Day,  Wash- 
ington's Birthday,  Easter,  May  Day,  Memorial 
Day,  Fourth  of  July,  Thanksgiving,  and  a  host  of 
minor  special  occasions.  The  plot  and  matter  for 
these  stories  of  occasions  are  so  trite  and  conven- 
tional that  it  is  a  wonder  that  the  reading  public  did 
not  rebel  against  them  long  ago ;  but  there  is  a  con- 
stant demand  for  such  stories,  and  the  writer  who 
can  give  the  old  plots  some  freshness  is  sure  of  a 
good  market.  Such  stories  should  always  be  sub- 
mitted at  least  three  months  before  they  are  to  be 
used,  for  special  editions  are  compiled  far  in  ad- 
vance; but  a  story  of  this  character  is  always  a 
marketable  commodity  and  may  be  carried  over  from 
year  to  year  without  deterioration. 

Of  a  more  ephemeral  type  are  the  stories  whose 
timeliness  depends  upon  their  coinciding  with  the 
current  fashion  in  short  stories.  For  there  are 
fashions  in  literature  just  as  surely  as  in  matters 
of  dress,  and  short  stories  are  peculiarly  subject  to 
such  changes.  A  few  years  ago  dialect  was  all  the 
cry,  and  a  story  was  judged  and  valued  according 
to  the  amount  of  unintelligible  gibberish  that  it  con- 
tained; before  that  romantic  adventure  was  most  in 
demand;  and  still  earlier  it  was  bald  realism;  at  th$ 

226 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

time  of  writing  (Spring  of  1900)  war  stories  hold 
first  place  in  popular  esteem.  The  reason  for  the 
present  style  is  obvious,  but  in  general  these  modes 
are  difficult  to  explain  and  almost  impossible  to  fore- 
cast. Such  stories  contain  no  new  plot,  and  for  their 
timeliness  depend  entirely  upon  the  introduction  of 
the  current  fashion,  whatever  it  may  be;  but  they  af- 
ford a  grateful  variety  to  the  rather  monotonous  run 
of  light  fiction.  They  also  offer  the  up-to-date  wri- 
ter unusual  opportunities  to  gain  editorial  favor,  for 
a  story  observant  of  the  current  mode  is  sure  of  se- 
rious consideration. 

You  should  make  it  a  rule  from  the  start  never  to 
give  away  a  story  for  the  mere  sake  of  seeing  your 
name  in  print.  What  is  worth  writing  and  pub- 
lishing is  worth  being  paid  for.  Don't  let  a  publisher 
persuade  you  that  the  appearance  of  your  work  in 
his  journal  will  bring  you  a  fame  and  a  name  that 
will  enable  you  to  sell  MSS.  elsewhere.  Every 
editor  knows  how  such  a  man  gets  his  matter, 
and  values  his  contributors  accordingly;  and  every 
publication  which  can  assist  you  in  your  career  pays 
for  whatever  matter  it  uses.  Besides,  by  giving 
away  your  stories  you  injure  the  literary  market, 
both  for  yourself  and  for  your  fellow  workers.  If 

$27 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

all  writers  resolutely  declined  to  part  with  their  work 
except  for  a  cash  equivalent,  those  scheming  editors 
would  soon  be  brought  to  time  and  forced  to  pay  for 
matter  to  fill  their  columns. 

Spare  no  pains  to  make  your  MSS.  neat  and  legi- 
ble. The  fact  that  you  are  as  yet  little  known  is 
undoubtedly  against  you;  your  mere  name  has  no 
power  to  exact  a  careful  perusal  of  your  story,  and  a 
judgment  in  accordance  with  its  merits;  so  it  is  your 
business  to  gain  that  favor  by  making  it  easy  for  the 
editor.  The  question  of  legibility  sums  up  the  whole 
tale.  The  average  editor  always  has  his  desk  piled 
high  with  unsolicited  MSS.  from  unknown  writers 
which  he  must  worry  through  after  a  fashion,  lest 
something  really  good  should  escape  him.  He  is 
conscientious  enough,  but  he  is  always  overworked, 
and  he  has  learned  by  experience  to  judge  a  MS.  al- 
most at  a  glance.  If  he  reads  beyond  the  first  page 
of  your  story,  it  is  good  evidence  that  he  found  there 
something  of  merit,  even  though  he  finally  reject 
it.  A  penciled  MS.,  or  one  that  is  written  on  both 
sides  of  the  paper,  will  hardly  get  a  passing  glance. 
Even  a  neat  pen-written  MS.  will  fare  little  better, 
for  to  the  editor  a  typewritten  story  means  not  only 
.easy  reading  but  probably  some  experience  on  the 

228 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

part  of  the  author.  Have  your  story  typewritten, 
then,  by  some  one  who  can  put  it  in  presentable 
shape,  so  that  it  will  look  business  like.  For  mail- 
ing it  is  best  to  fold  it  as  little  as  possible;  the  large 
legal  envelope,  requiring  two  folds,  is  most  used. 
Unless  the  MS.  is  bulky  or  is  on  unusually  small 
sheets,  it  is  best  to  fold  it  at  least  once,  for  if  sent 
flat  it  usually  arrives  in  a  crumpled  state.  Never 
roll  it,  under  any  circumstances,  for  a  MS.  once 
rolled  can  never  be  smoothed  out,  and  no  editor  will 
bother  with  it. 

Make  the  letter  accompanying  your  story  as  short 
and  business  like  as  possible.  Don't  tell  the  editor 
your  family  history  or  relate  how  you  came  to  write 
the  story;  don't  ask  him  for  criticisms  or  sugges- 
tions; say  that  you  submit  such  a  MS.  subject  to  his 
approval,  and  give  your  name  and  address.  That 
is  all  he  cares  to  know  about  you.  Always  enclose 
stamps  for  return  of  MS. — or,  better  yet,  a  stamped 
and  self-addressed  envelope;  never  be  so  small  or  so 
careless  as  to  underpay  the  postage. 

It  is  of  course  your  privilege  to  put  a  price  upon 
any  matter  that  you  may  submit  for  publication ;  but 
unless  the  magazine  editorially  requests  a  set  price 
I  should  advise  you  to  leave  that  matter  to  the  ed- 

929 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

itor,  and  to  submit  your  work  "  at  the  usual  rates." 
It  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  literary  business  that  usu- 
ally the  buyer  rather  than  the  seller  makes  the  terms, 
and  until  your  name  has  a  value  you  are  hardly  in 
position  to  run  counter  to  custom.  Nor  is  it  likely 
that  you  have  had  sufficient  experience  to  enable  you 
to  estimate  your  work  justly.  You  need  have  no 
fear  of  being  cheated,  for  a  reputable  publishing 
house  is  always  willing  to  pay  a  fit  price  for  suit- 
able MSS. 

It  will  do  you  no  good  to  get  a  letter  from  some 
well  known  author  or  public  person  recommending 
your  work  to  the  publisher;  and  it  will  often  do 
harm.  Matter  from  novices  is  accepted  on  its  merits 
alone,  and  no  amount  of  praise  from  a  man  of  let- 
ters or  an  influential  friend  will  make  your  story  one 
whit  better  than  it  was  when  you  gave  it  the  finish- 
ing touches.  The  most  such  intercession  can  ac- 
complish is  a  perusal  of  your  MS.,  and  that  you  can 
yourself  obtain  if  you  will  make  it  presentable.  If 
you  imagine  that  an  editor  will  be  influenced  in  his 
judgment  by  the  words  of  an  outsider,  you  are  sadly 
mistaken — he  is  far  more  apt  to  be  prejudiced 
against  you.  He  is  an  experienced  and  competent 


930 


(THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

man,  who  knows  exactly  what  he  wants,  and  who 
may  naturally  be  expected  to  resent  any  such  im- 
pertinent interference  with  his  work. 

It  seems  a  small  thing  for  you  to  ask  an  editor 
to  give  you  a  criticism  on  your  work,  and  many  a 
young  writer  has  long  cherished  a  grudge  against 
some  editor  who  has  totally  ignored  his  urgent  and 
flattering  request  for  a  candid  opinion.  There  is  no 
question  that  even  a  word  from  an  editor  would  be 
of  untold  value  to  the  novice;  but  the  novice  has  no 
idea  what  his  request  means.  Every  magazine  is 
at  great  expense  for  the  employment  of  trained 
"  readers  "  to  pass  upon  the  unsolicited  MSS.  sub- 
mitted to  it,  and  the  according  of  even  a  word  of 
criticism  to  each  would  at  least  double  that  expense. 
Then,  too,  three-fourths  of  the  MSS.  submitted  to 
any  editor  are  such  that  he  could  not  honestly  say 
anything  good  of  them,  and  no  editor  cares  to  go  out 
of  his  way  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  writer;  nor 
would  it  be  policy  for  him  to  do  so.  Every  time 
you  submit  a  MS.  to  an  editor  you  are  in  a  manner 
imposing  on  him,  so  be  as  easy  on  him  as  possible. 
If  you  feel  that  you  must  have  an  expert  opinion  on 
your  work,  send  it  to  one  of  the  literary  bureaus 


231 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

which  have  been  established  for  just  that  purpose. 
They  will  give  you  a  careful  and  just  criticism  for 
the  payment  of  a  nominal  fee. 

Do  not  rest  your  hopes  of  success  upon  the  fate 
of  one  MS.  If  you  never  write  a  new  story  until 
its  predecessor  has  been  placed  you  cannot  possibly 
live  long  enough  to  win  success.  You  should  be 
constantly  turning  out  new  stories,  each  one  better 
than  the  last;  or  reworking  an  old  one  whose  faults 
you  have  just  discovered;  and  you  should  keep  the 
mails  loaded  with  your  work.  You  can  never  have 
too  many  good  stories  on  the  road. 

Do  not  become  impatient  if  you  do  not  receive  a 
check  for  your  story  within  a  week  after  sending 
it  out.  The  largest  magazines  usually  require  three 
months  and  sometimes  longer  to  report  on  a  MS. 
If  you  attempt  to  hurry  the  editorial  decision  you 
will  probably  receive  your  MS.  by  return  mail,  un- 
read. ' 

It  is  advisable  that  you  keep  a  MS.  memoran- 
dum book  of  some  sort,  in  which  you  may  record  the 
journeyings  of  your  MSS.,  so  that  you  may  know 
where  they  have  been  and  how  long  they  have  been 
away.  You  do  not  want  to  send  the  same  MS.  to 
the  same  editor  twice,  nor  to  continue  submitting 

232 


THE  QUEST  OF  A  MARKET 

matter  to  a  magazine  which  is  already  overstocked, 
or  which  is  careless  in  returning  your  work.  If 
you  trust  to  your  memory,  or  to  some  slip  shod 
method,  you  will  regret  it  in  the  end,  for  you  will 
not  only  lose  many  MSS.,  but  you  will  be  submit- 
ting your  work  in  a  hit-or-miss  fashion  that  is  little 
likely  to  get  it  into  the  proper  hands.  There  are 
several  books  of  this  sort  on  the  market,  or  you  can 
easily  make  one  for  yourself  from  an  ordinary  blank 
book.  It  may  take  any  form  you  please,  but  I 
would  suggest  that  it  should  include  spaces  for  the 
number  of  words  in  the  story  and  the  postage  re- 
quired to  carry  it,  besides  the  publishers  to  whom  it 
is  submitted  and  the  dates  when  it  is  mailed  and  re- 
turned. 

The  rejection  of  your  MS.  by  one  or  two  editors 
should  not  discourage  you:  you  may  try  twelve  ed- 
itors and  have  the  thirteenth  accept  it.  It  is  seldom 
indeed  that  it  finds  place  where  it  is  first  submit- 
ted: it  may  not  just  meet  the  ideals  of  that  editor; 
or  he  may  already  have  too  much  matter  on  hand. 
If  you  believe  the  story  is  good,  keep  it  going  till 
it  has  been  the  rounds :  you  may  find  that  the  dawn 
of  success  comes  from  the  point  whence  you  least 
expected  it. 

233 


APPENDIX 
"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST" 

(From  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  "  Twice-Told  Tales.") 
I.  One  September  night  a  family  had  gathered 
round  their  hearth  and  piled  it  high  with  the  drift- 
wood of  mountain-streams,  the  dry  cones  of  the 
pine,  and  the  splintered  ruins  of  great  trees  that 
had  come  crashing  down  the  precipice.  Up  the 
chimney  roared  the  fire,  and  brightened  the  room 
with  its  broad  blaze.  The  faces  of  the  father  and 
mother  had  a  sober  gladness;  the  children  laughed. 
The  eldest  daughter  was  the  image  of  Happiness  at 
seventeen,  and  the  aged  grandmother,  who  sat  knit- 
ting in  the  warmest  place,  was  the  image  of  Happi- 
ness grown  old.  They  had  found  the  "  herb  heart's- 
ease  "  in  the  bleakest  spot  of  all  New  England.  This 
family  were  situated  in  the  Notch  of  the  White 
Hills,  where  the  wind  was  sharp  throughout  the 
year  and  pitilessly  cold  in  the  winter,  giving  their 
cottage  all  its  fresh  inclemency  before  it  descended 
on  the  valley  of  the  Saco.  They  dwelt  in  a  cold 

234 


"  THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST  " 

spot  and  a  dangerous  one,  for  a  mountain  towered 
above  their  heads  so  steep  that  the  stones  would  often 
rumble  down  its  sides  and  startle  them  at  midnight. 

2.  The  daughter  had  just  uttered   some  simple 
jest  that  filled  them  all  with  mirth,  when  the  wind 
came  through  the  Notch  and  seemed  to  pause  before 
their  cottage,  rattling  the  door  with  a  sound  of  wail- 
ing and  lamentation  before  it  passed  into  the  valley. 
For  a  moment  it  saddened  them,  though  there  was 
nothing  unusual  in  the  tones.     But  the  family  were 
glad  again  when  they  perceived  that  the  latch  was 
lifted  by  some  traveler  whose  footsteps  had  been  un- 
heard amid  the  dreary  blast  which  heralded  his  ap- 
proach and  waited  as  he  was  entering  and  went 
moaning  away  from  the  door. 

3.  Though  they  dwelt  in  such  a  solitude,  these 
people  held  daily  converse  with  the  world.     The  ro- 
mantic pass  of  the  Notch  is  a  great  artery  through 
which  the  life-blood  of  internal  commerce  is  con- 
tinually throbbing  between  Maine  on  the  one  side 
and  the  Green  Mountains  and  the  shores  of  the  St. 
Lawrence  on  the  other.     The  stage-coach  always 
drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.     The  way- 
farer with  no  companion  but  his  staff  paused  here 
to  exchange  a  word,  that  the  sense  of    loneliness 

235 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

might  not  utterly  overcome  him  ere  he  could  pass 
through  the  cleft  of  the  mountain  or  reach  the  first 
house  in  the  valley.  And  here  the  teamster  on  his 
way  to  Portland  market  would  put  up  for  the  night, 
and,  if  a  bachelor,  might  sit  an  hour  beyond  the 
usual  bedtime  and  steal  a  kiss  from  the  mountain- 
maid  at  parting.  It  was  one  of  those  primitive  tav- 
erns where  the  traveler  pays  only  for  food  and  lodg- 
ing, but  meets  with  a  homely  kindness  beyond  all 
price.  When  the  footsteps  were  heard,  therefore, 
between  the  outer  door  and  the  inner  one,  the  whole 
family  rose  up,  grandmother,  children  and  all,  as 
if  about  to  welcome  some  one  who  belonged  to  them, 
and  whose  fate  was  linked  with  theirs. 

4.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  man.  His 
face  at  first  wore  the  melancholy  expression,  almost 
despondency,  of  one  who  travels  a  wild  and  bleak 
road  at  nightfall  and  alone,  but  soon  brightened  up 
when  he  saw  the  kindly  warmth  of  his  reception. 
He  felt  his  heart  spring  forward  to  meet  them  all, 
from  the  old  woman  who  wiped  a  chair  with  her 
apron  to  the  little  child  that  held  out  its  arms  to 
him.  One  glance  and  smile  placed  the  stranger  on 
a  footing  of  innocent  familiarity  with  the  eldest 

daughter. 

236 


"  THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST ' 

5.  "  Ah !  this  fire  is  the  right  thing,"  cried  he, 
"  especially  when  there  is   such    a   pleasant   circle 
round  it.     I  am  quite  benumbed,  for  the  Notch  is 
just  like  the  pipe  of  a  great  pair  of  bellows;  it  has 
blown  a  terrible  blast  in  my  face  all  the  way  from 
Bartlett" 

6.  "Then  you  are  going   toward    Vermont?" 
said  the  master  of  the  house  as  he  helped  to  take  a 
light  knapsack  off  the  young  man's  shoulders. 

7.  "  Yes,   to   Burlington,   and   far   enough   be- 
yond," replied  he.     "I  meant  to  have  been  at  Ethan 
Crawford's  to-night  but  a  pedestrian  lingers  along 
such  a  road  as  this.     It  is  no  matter;  for  when  I 
saw  this  good  fire  and  all  your  cheerful  faces,  I  felt 
as  if  you  had  kindled  it  on  purpose  for  me  and  were 
waiting  my  arrival.     So  I  shall  sit  down  among 
you  and  make  myself  at  home." 

8.  The  frank-hearted  stranger  had  just   drawn 
his  chair  up  to  the  fire  when  something  like  a  heavy 
footstep  was  heard  without  rushing  down  the  steep 
side  of  the  mountain  as  with  long  and  rapid  strides, 
and  taking  such  a  leap  in  passing  the  cottage  as  to 
strike  the  opposite  precipice.     The  family  held  their 
breath,  because  they  knew  the  sound,  and  their  guest 
held  his  by  instinct. 

237 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

9.  "  The  old  mountain  has  thrown  a  stone  at  us 
for  fear  we  should  forget  him,"  said  the  landlord, 
recovering  himself.     "  He  sometimes  nods  his  head 
and  threatens  to  come  down,  but  we  are  old  neigh- 
bors, and  agree  together  pretty  well,  upon  the  whole. 
Besides,  we  have  a  sure  place  of  refuge  hard  by  if  he 
should  be  coming  in  good  earnest." 

10.  Let  us  now  suppose  the  stranger  to  have 
finished  his  supper  of  bear's  meat,  and  by  his  natural 
felicity  of  manner  to  have  placed  himself  on  a  foot- 
ing of  kindness  with  the  whole  family;  so  that  they 
talked  together  as  freely  as  if  he  belonged  to  their 
mountain-brood.     He  was  of  a  proud  yet  gentle 
spirit,  haughty   and   reserved   among  the  rich  and 
great,  but  ever  ready  to  stoop  his  head  to  the  lowly 
cottage  door  and  be  like  a  brother  or  a  son  at  the 
poor  man's  fireside.     In  the  household  of  the  Notch 
he  found  warmth  and  simplicity  of  feeling,  the  per- 
vading intelligence  of  New  England,  and  a  poetry 
of  native  growth  which  they  had  gathered  when  they 
very  little  thought  of  it  from  the  mountain-peaks  and 
chasms,  and  at  the  very  threshold  of  their  romantic 
and  dangerous  abode.     He  had   traveled    far   and 
alone;  his  whole  life,  indeed,  had  been  a  solitary 


338 


"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST' 

path,  for,  with  the  lofty  caution  of  his  nature,  he 
had  kept  himself  apart  from  those  who  might  other- 
wise have  been  his  companions.  The  family,  too, 
though  so  kind  and  hospitable,  had  that  conscious- 
ness of  unity  among  themselves  and  separation  from 
the  world  at  large  which  in  every  domestic  circle 
should  still  keep  a  holy  place  where  no  stranger  may 
intrude.  But  this  evening  a  prophetic  sympathy  im- 
pelled the  refined  and  educated  youth  to  pour  out  his 
heart  before  the  simple  mountaineers,  and  con- 
strained them  to  answer  him  with  the  same  free  con- 
fidence. And  thus  it  should  have  been.  Is  not  the 
kindred  of  a  common  fate  a  closer  tie  than  that  of 
birth? 

ii.  The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character 
was  a  high  and  abstracted  ambition.  He  could  have 
borne  to  live  an  undistinguished  life,  but  not  to  be 
forgotten  in  the  grave.  Yearning  desire  had  been 
transformed  to  hope,  and  hope,  long  cherished,  had 
become  like  certainty  that,  obscurely  as  he  journeyed 
now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on  all  his  pathway,  though 
not,  perhaps,  while  he  was  treading  it.  But  when 
posterity  should  gaze  back  into  the  gloom  of  what 
was  now  the  present,  they  would  trace  the  brightness 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

of  his  footsteps,  brightening  as  meaner  glories  faded, 
and  confess  that  a  gifted  one  had  passed  from  his 
cradle  to  his  tomb  with  none  to  recognize  him. 

12.  "  As  yet,"  cried  the  stranger,  his  cheek  glow- 
ing and  his  eye  flashing  with  enthusiasm — "  as  yet 
I  have  done  nothing.     Were  I  to  vanish  from  the 
earth  to-morrow,  none  would  know  so  much  of  me 
as  you — that  a  nameless  youth  came  up  at  nightfall 
from  the  valley  of  the  Saco,  and  opened  his  heart  to 
you  in  the  evening,  and  passed  through  the  Notch 
by  sunrise,  and  was  seen  no  more.     Not  a  soul  would 
ask, '  Who  was  he  ?     Whither  did  the  wanderer  go  ?  ' 
But  I  cannot  die  till  I  have  achieved   my   destiny. 
Then  let  Death  come:  I  shall  have  built  my  monu- 
ment." 

13.  There  was  a  continual  flow  of  natural  emo- 
tion gushing  forth  amid  abstracted  reverie  which  en- 
abled the  family  to  understand  this  young  man's 
sentiments,    though    so    foreign    from    their    own. 
With  quick  sensibility  of  the  ludicrous,  he  blushed 
at  the  ardor  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed. 

14.  "  You  laugh  at  me,"  said  he,   taking  the 
eldest  daughter's  hand  and    laughing    at    himself. 
"  You  think  my  ambition  as  nonsensical  as  if  I  were 
to  freeze  myself  to  death  on  the  top  of  Mount  Wash- 

240 


"  THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST ' 

ington  only  that  people  might  spy  at  me  from  the 
country  roundabout.  And  truly  that  would  be  a 
noble  pedestal  for  a  man's  statue." 

15.  "  It  is  better  to  sit  here  by  this  fire,"  an- 
swered the  girl,  blushing,  "  and  be  comfortable  and 
contented,  though  nobody  thinks  about  us." 

16.  "  I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  after  a  fit  of 
musing,  "  there  is  something  natural  in  what  the 
young  man  says;  and  if  my  mind  had  been  turned 
that  way,  I  might  have  felt  just  the  same. — It  is 
strange,  wife,  how  his  talk  has  set  my  head  run- 
ning on  things  that  are  pretty  certain  never  to  come 
to  pass." 

17.  "Perhaps  they  may,"  observed    the    wife. 
"  Is  the  man  thinking  what  he  will  do  when  he  is 
a  widower?  " 

18.  "  No,  no!  "  cried  he,  repelling  the  idea  with 
reproachful  kindness.     "  When  I    think    of    your 
death,  Esther,  I  think  of  mine  too.     But  I  was  wish- 
ing we  had  a  good  farm  in  Bartlett  or  Bethlehem  or 
Littleton,  or  some  other  township  round  the  White 
Mountains,  but  not  where  they  could  tumble  on  our 
heads.     I  should  want  to  stand  well  with  my  neigh- 
bors and  be  called  squire  and  sent  to  General  Court 
for  a  term  or  two;  for  a  plain,  honest  man  may  do 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

as  much  good  there  as  a  lawyer.  And  when  I 
should  Be  grown  quite  an  old  man,  and  you  an  old 
woman,  so  as  not  to  be  long  apart,  I  might  die  happy 
enough  in  my  bed,  and  leave  you  all  crying  around 
me.  A  slate  gravestone  would  suit  me  as  well  as 
a  marble  one,  with  just  my  name  and  age,  and  a 
verse  of  a  hymn,  and  something  to  let  people  know 
that  I  lived  an  honest  man  and  died  a  Christ- 
ian." 

19.  "  There,  now !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger;  "  it 
is  our  nature  to  desire  a  monument,  be  it  slate  or  mar- 
ble, or  a  pillar  of  granite,  or  a  glorious  memory  in 
the  universal  heart  of  man." 

20.  "  We're  in  a  strange  way  to-night,"  said  the 
wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.     "  They  say  it's  a  sign 
of  something  when  folk's  minds  go  a-wandering  so. 
Hark  to  the  children !  " 

21.  They   listened   accordingly.     The   younger 
children  had  been  put  to  bed  in  another  room,  but 
with  an  open  door  between;  so  that  they  could  be 
heard  talking  busily  among  themselves.     One  and  all 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  infection  from  the  fire- 
side circle;,  and  were  outvying  each  other  in  wild 
wishes  and  childish  projects  of  what  they  would  do 
when  they  came  to  be  men  and  women.     At  length 

942 


"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST" 

a  little  boy,  instead  of  addressing  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  called  out  to  his  mother. 

22.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish,  mother,"  cried 
he :    "I  want  you  and  father  and  grandma'm,  and 
all  of  us,  and  the  stranger  too,  to  start  right  away 
and  go  and  take  a  drink  out  of  the  basin  of  the 
Flume." 

23.  Nobody  could  help  laughing  at  the  child's 
notion  of  leaving  a  warm  bed  and  dragging  them 
from  a  cheerful  fire  to  visit  the  basin  of  the  Flume — 
a  brook  which  tumbles  over  the  precipice  deep  within 
the  Notch. 

24.  The  boy  had  hardly  spoken,  when  a  wagon 
rattled  along  the  road  and  stopped  a  moment  be- 
fore the  door.     It  appeared  to  contain  two  or  three 
men  who  were  cheering  their  hearts  with  the  rough 
chorus  of  a  song  which  resounded  in  broken  notes 
between    the    cliffs,    while    the    singers    hesitated 
whether  to  continue  their  journey  or  put  up  here 
for  the  night. 

25.  "  Father,"  said  the  girl,  "  they  are  calling 
you  by  name." 

26.  But  the  good  man  doubted  whether  they  had 
really  called  him,  and  was  unwilling  to  show  him- 
self too  solicitous  of  gain  by  inviting  people  to  pat- 

243 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

ronize  his  house.  He  therefore  did  not  hurry  to 
the  door,  and,  the  lash  being  soon  applied,  the 
travelers  plunged  into  the  Notch,  still  singing  and 
laughing,  though  their  music  and  mirth  came  back 
drearily  from  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

27.  "There,   mother!"   cried   the  boy,   again; 
"  they'd  have  given  us  a  ride  to  the  Flume." 

28.  Again  they  laughed  at  the  child's  pertina- 
cious fancy  for  a  night-ramble.     But  it  happened 
that  a  light  cloud  passed  over  the  daughter's  spirit; 
she  looked  gravely  into  the  fire  and  drew  a  breath 
that  was  almost  a  sigh.     It  forced  its  way,  in  spite 
of  a  little  struggle  to  repress  it.     Then,  starting  and 
blushing,  she  looked  quickly  around  the  circle,  as  if 
they  had  caught  a  glimpse  into  her  bosom.     The 
stranger  asked  what  she  had  been  thinking  of. 

29.  "  Nothing,"  answered  she,  with  a  downcast 
smile;  "only  I  felt  lonesome  just  then." 

30.  "  Oh,  I  have  always  had  a  gift  of  feeling 
what  is  in  other  people's  hearts,"  said  he,  half  se- 
riously.    "  Shall  I  tell  the  secret  of  yours  ?     For  I 
know  what  to  think  when  a  young  girl  shivers  by 
a  warm  hearth  and  complains  of  lonesomeness  at 
her  mother's  side.     Shall  I  put  these  feelings  into 
words  ?  " 

•44 


"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST' 

31.  "They  would  not  be  a  girl's  feelings  any 
longer  if  they  could  be  put  into  words,"  replied  the 
mountain-nymph,  laughing,  but  avoiding  his  eye. 

32.  All  this  was  said  apart.     Perhaps  a  germ  of 
love  was  springing  in  their  hearts  so  pure  that  it 
might  blossom  in  Paradise,  since  it  could  not  be  ma- 
tured on  earth;  for  women  worship  such  gentle  dig- 
nity as  his,  and  the  proud,  contemplative,  yet  kindly, 
soul  is  oftenest  captivated  by  simplicity  like  hers. 
But  while  they  spoke  softly,  and  he  was  watching 
the  happy  sadness,  the  lightsome  shadows,  the  shy 
yearnings,  of  a  maiden's  nature,  the  wind  through 
the  Notch  took  a  deeper  and  drearier  sound.     It 
seemed,  as  the  fanciful  stranger  said,  like  the  choral 
strain  of  the  spirits  of  the  blast  who  in  old  Indian 
times  had  their  dwelling  among  these  mountains  and 
made  their  heights  and  recesses  a  sacred  region. 
There  was  a  wail  along  the  road  as  if  a  funeral  were 
passing.     To  chase  away  the   gloom,    the    family 
threw  pine-branches  on  their  fire  till  the  dry  leaves 
crackled  and  the  flame  arose,  discovering  once  again 
a  scene  of  peace  and  humble  happiness.     The  light 
hovered  about  them  fondly  and  caressed  them  all. 
There  were  the  little  faces  of  the  children  peeping 
from  their  bed  apart,  and  here  the  father's  frame  of 

245 


SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

strength,  the  mother's  subdued  and  careful  mien, 
the  high-browed  youth,  the  budding  girl,  and  the 
good  old  grandma,  still  knitting  in  the  warmest 
place. 

33.  The  aged  woman  looked  up  from  her  task, 
and  with  fingers  ever  busy  was  the  next  to  speak. 

34.  "  Old  folks  have  their  notions,"  said  she, 
"  as  well  as  young  ones.     You've  been  wishing  and 
planning  and  letting  your  heads  run  on  one  thing 
and  another  till  you've  set  my  mind  a-wandering  too. 
Now,  what  should  an  old  woman  wish  for,  when  she 
can  go  but  a  step  or  two  before  she  comes  to  her 
grave?     Children,  it  will  haunt  me  night  and  day 
till  I  tell  you." 

35.  "  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  cried  the  husband 
and  wife  at  once. 

36.  Then  the  old  woman,  with  an  air  of  mys- 
tery which  drew  the  circle  closer  round  the  fire,  in- 
formed them  that  she  had  provided  her  graveclothes 
some  years  before — a  nice  linen  shroud,  a  cap  with 
a  muslin  ruff,  and  everything  of  a  finer  sort  than 
she  had  worn  since  her  wedding  day.     But  this 
evening  an  old  superstition  had  strangely  recurred 
to  her.     It  used  to  be  said  in  her  younger  days  that 
if  anything  were  amiss  with  a  corpse — if  only  the 

246 


"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST'1 

ruff  were  not  smooth  or  the  cap  did  not  set  right — 
the  corpse,  in  the  coffin  and  beneath  the  clods,  would 
strive  to  put  up  its  cold  hands  and  arrange  it.  The 
bare  thought  made  her  nervous. 

37.  "  Don't  talk  so,  grandmother,"  said  the  girl, 
shuddering. 

38.  "  Now,"  continued  the  old    woman,    with 
singular  earnestness,  yet  smiling  strangely  at  her 
own  folly,  "  I  want  one  of  you,  my  children,  when 
your  mother  is  dressed  and  in  the  coffin, — I  want  one 
of  you  to  hold  a  looking-glass  over  my  face.     Who 
knows  but  I  may  take  a  glimpse  at  myself  and  see 
whether  all's  right?" 

39.  "  Old  and  young,  we  dream  of  graves  and 
monuments,"    murmured   the  stranger   youth.     "  I 
wonder  how  mariners  feel  when  the  ship  is  sinking 
and  they,  unknown  and  undistinguished,  are  to  be 
buried  together  in  the  ocean,  that  wide  and  name- 
less sepulcher  ?  " 

40.  For  a  moment  the  old  woman's  ghastly  con- 
ception so  engrossed  the  minds  of  her  hearers  that 
a  sound  abroad  in  the  night,  rising  like  the  roar  of 
a  blast,  had  grown  broad,  deep  and  terrible  before 
the  fated  group  were  conscious  of  it.     The  house  and 
all  within  it  trembled;  the  foundations  of  the  earth 

247 


f  SHORT  STORY  WRITING 

/  seemed  to  be  shaken,  as  if  this  awful  sound  were  the 
peal  of  the  last  trump.  Young  and  old  exchanged 
one  wild  glance  and  remained  an  instant  pale,  af- 
frighted, without  utterance  or  power  to  move.  Then 
the  same  shrielc)burst  simultaneously  from  all  their 
HpsT~~ 

41.  "The  slide!     The  slide!" 

42.  The  simplest  words  must  intimate,  but  not 
portray,  the  unutterable  horror  of  the  catastrophe. 
The  victims  rushed  from  their  cottage  and  sought 
refuge  in  what  they  deemed  a  safer  spot,  where,  in 
contemplation  of  such  an  emergency,  a  sort  of  bar- 
rier had  been  reared.     Alas!  they  had  quitted  their 
security  and  fled  right  into  the  pathway  of  destruc- 
tion.    Down  came  the  whole  side  of  the  mountain  in 
a  cataract  of  ruin.     Just  before  it  reached  the  house 
the  stream  broke  into  two  branches,  shivered  not  a 
window  there,  but  overwhelmed  the  whole  vicinity, 
blocked  up  the  road  and  annihilated  everything  in  its 
dreadful  course.     Long  ere  the  thunder  of  that  great 
slide  had  ceased  to  roar  among  the  mountains  the 
mortal  agony  had  been  endured  and  the  victims 
were  at  peace.     Their  bodies  were  never  found. 

43.  The  next  morning  the  light  smoke  was  seen 
stealing  from  the  cottage  chimney  up  the  mountain- 

248 


"THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST'1 

side.  Within,  the  fire  was  yet  smouldering  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  chairs  in  a  circle  round  it,  as  if  the 
inhabitants  had  but  gone  forth  to  view  the  devasta- 
tion of  the  slide  and  would  shortly  return  to  thank 
Heaven  for  their  miraculous  escape.  All  had  left 
separate  tokens  by  which  those  who  had  known  the 
family  were  made  to  shed  a  tear  for  each.  Who  has 
not  heard  their  name?  The  story  has  been  told  far 
and  wide,  and  will  forever  be  a  legend  of  these 
mountains.  Poets  have  sung  their  fate. 

44.  There  were  circumstances  which  led  some 
to  suppose  that  a  stranger  had  been  received  into  the 
cottage  on  this  awful  night,  and  had  shared  the  cat- 
astrophe of  all  its  inmates ;  others  denied  that  there 
were  sufficient  grounds  for  such  a  conjecture.  Woe 
for  the  high-souled  youth  with  his  dream  of  earthly 
immortality!  His  name  and  person  utterly  un- 
known, his  history,  his  way  of  life,  his  plans,  a  mys- 
tery never  to  be  solved,  his  death  and  his  existence 
equally  a  doubt, — whose  was  the  agony  of  that  death 
moment? 

THE  END 


249 


INDEX 


ACTION  :  implied  by  plot,  45 ; 
of  characters,  102;  ad- 
vanced by  speech,  107;  ad- 
vanced by  preliminary  cli- 
max, 177. 

Adjectives,  197. 

Adverbs,  198. 

Allegory,  29. 

"Ambitious  Guest,  The:" 
as  paradigm,  46;  observes 
unities,  48,  150-152,  154; 
"  elemental  "  or  "  true  " 
plot  of,  58;  "theme"  of, 
58 ;  "  skeleton  "  or  "  work- 
ing plot"  of,  59-61;  facts 
in,  90-93 ;  characters  in, 
97;  compression  of  dia- 
logue in,  115;  beginning 
of,  134,  146;  scene  of,  144; 
suspense  in,  162;  prepara- 
tion for  climax  in,  167- 
169;  climax  of,  172,  183; 
'conclusion  of,  183 ;  text 
of,  234-249. 

Author,    intrusion    of,     120- 

122. 

BALANCE,  160. 

Beginning:    crucial  test,  132, 

146-148;     length   of,    132; 

introduces  foundation 


facts,     132-138;      dilatory, 

138-140;     prefatory,     141; 

locates  scene,  143,  145 ;  best 

method  of,  146. 
Best  twelve  American  short 

stories,  24. 
"  Bookish  "         conversation, 

109. 
Burlesque,  39. 

CHAPTERS,  149. 

Characters:  names  of  as  ti- 
tles, 72,  76;  necessity  of, 
94;  based  on  fact,  94; 
composites,  95 ;  descrip- 
tions of,  96,  98-102;  char- 
acteristics of,  97,  102;  ap- 
pearance of,  97;  active, 
102;  few,  103;  interest  in, 
104 ;  names  of,  105 ;  speech 
of,  106-116;  models,  118. 

Character  Sketch,  32. 

Character  Study:  defined, 
32;  Dialect  Story  related 
to,  33 ;  plot  of,  48. 

Classification  of  Short 
Stories :  use  of,  26 ;  Tale, 
27;  True  Story,  27;  Im- 
aginative  Tale,  27;  Moral 
Story,  28 ;  Fable,  28 ;  Story 
with  a  Moral,  29;  Alle- 


251 


INDEX 


gory,  29;  Weird  Story,  30; 
Ghost  Story,  30;  Fantastic 
Tale,  31 ;  Study  in  Horror, 
31 ;  Character  Study,  32 ; 
Character  Sketch,  32 ;  Dia- 
lect Story,  33;  Parable  of 
the  Times,  35;  Instructive 
Story,  35;  Story  o/  To- 
day, 36;  Story  o/  Ingenu- 
ity, 36;  Story  of  Wonder, 
37;  Detective  Story,  37; 
Humorous  Story,  38 ; 
Nonsense  Story,,  38;  -Swr- 
lesque,  39 ;  Dramatic 
Story,  39-41. 

Climax :  how  estimated, 
161 ;  preparation  for,  161- 
170,  177-179;  logical  and 
inevitable,  165 ;  antici- 
pated, 166,  169;  too  ob- 
vious, 166;  in  "Ambi- 
tious Guest,"  167-169;  in 
stories  of  premonition, 
169;  as  a  test,  171;  de- 
fined, 171;  length  of,  172; 
proper,  172;  position  of, 
173;  ends  suspense,  174; 
not  tragic,  175-177;  pre- 
liminary, 177-179;  "false" 
or  "technical,"  179-182; 
coincident  with  conclusion, 
183. 

Collections  of  short  stories, 
41-44. 

Commonplaces :  in  title,  71 ; 
not  literary,  86;  in  dia- 
logue, no,  112-114;  in 
style,  191-195- 


Conclusion :  defined,  171 ; 
length  of,  182;  coincident 
with  climax,  183;  padded, 
184 ;  conventional,  185- 
188. 

Conversation :    see  Dialogue. 

Crane.  Stephen,  style  of,  200. 

Criticism,  222,  231. 

Curiosity,  161. 

DENOUEMENT  :  see  Climax 
and  Conclusion. 

Description  of  characters,  96. 
98-102;  of  scene,  143,  145. 

Detective  Story:  defined, 
37;  plot  of,  48. 

Dialect,  117. 

Dialect  Story:  defined,  33; 
as  literature,  116. 

Dialogue :  advances  action, 
106;  modern  use  of,  107; 
natural  and  interesting, 
108;  "bookish,"  109;  com- 
monplace, no,  112-114;  at- 
tempted humor  in,  in; 
unimportant,  115;  in  Dia- 
lect Story,  116-118;  intro- 
duces foundation  facts, 
134- 

Diary,  narration  by,  125. 

Dickens,  Charles:  search  for 
types,  78;  intensified  char- 
acters, 96 ;  names  of  char- 
acters, 105. 

Didacticism:  inartistic,  157; 
veiled,  158. 

Double  titles :  sensational, 
72-74;  too  long,  75. 


252 


INDEX 


Drama :  tendency  toward, 
107;  influence  of,  175. 

Dramatic  Story:  defined,  39; 
in  Form,  40;  in  Effect,  40. 

EDITOR  :  method  of  approach- 
ing, 223,  228;  needs  of, 
224,  225-227;  letter  to, 
229,  230 ;  opinion  of,  231 ; 
rejection  by,  232,  233. 

Elaboration  of  facts,  89. 

Elemental  Plot :  defined,  58 ; 
in  "  Ambitious  Guest,"  59. 

Element  of  Surprise:  de- 
fined, 162;  genuine,  165. 

Element  of  Suspense:  de- 
fined, 161 ;  relief  of,  162- 
164,  177-179;  ended  by  cli- 
max. 174. 

End :    see  Conclusion. 

Epistolary  form,   125. 

Epoch  of  the  Short  Story,  12. 

Fable..  28. 

Facts:  source  of  plots,  50; 
in  fiction,  78;  acquisition 
of,  78,  84;  familiar,  80; 
unfamiliar,  80,  81 ;  about 
society,  81 :  historical,  82 ; 
utility  of,  84;  use  of,  86, 
87;  not  strange,  86; 
plausibility  of,  89;  sup- 
pression and  elaboration 
of,  89;  in  "Ambitious 
Guest,"  90-93 ;  characters 
based  on,  94 ;  introduced 
in  beginning,  132-138. 

False  Climax,  179-182,   183. 


Fantastic  Tale,  31. 

Fantasy,  19. 

Fashions  in  short  stories, 
226. 

Fiction:  founded  on  fact, 
78;  verisimilitude  in,  87: 
life  in,  88;  derivation  of 
characters  in,  94;  names 
in,  105;  surprise  in,  170. 

Figures  of  speech,  195. 

"  Fine  writing,"    193. 

First  person  narrative,  122- 
125. 

Foreign  words  and  phrases, 
196. 

GENIUS  :  value  of,  209 ;  de- 
pendence on,  214. 

Ghost  Story,  30. 

Grammar :  disregard  of, 
204;  faults  of,  219. 

Greek  unities :  observance 
of,  47;  in  "Ambitious 
Guest,"  48. 

HAPPY  ending,  185. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel :  in- 
fluence on  short  story,  1 1 ; 
his  didactic  stories,  28-" 
30. 

Hero :  description  of,  96, 
97,  98-102;  importance  of, 
103;  as  narrator,  122-125; 
an  animal  or  a  thing,  126- 
128. 

Humor,    20;     attempted,  in. 

Humorous  Story,  38. 


253 


INDEX 


IMAGINATION,  51. 

Imaginative  Tale,  27. 

Individuality:  influences 
style,  189;  cultivation  of, 
205. 

Inspiration:  value  of,  212- 
214;  dependence  on,  214; 
creation  of,  214-216. 

Instructive  Story,  35. 

Irving,  Washington  i  influ- 
ence on  short  story,  n; 
used  narration  within  nar- 
ration, 131;  used  dilatory 
beginning,  138. 

Italics,  191,  201. 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD  :  made 
hero  an  animal,  127;  used 
prefatory  beginning,  142. 

LENGTH:  of   short  story,    17; 

of  title,  75;    of  beginning, 

132,   146;    of  climax,   172; 

of  conclusion,  182. 
Letters:    narration  by,    125; 

accompanying   MSS.,   229; 

of    recommendation,    230. 
Local  Color,  156. 
Love  Element,  18. 

MAILING  MSS.,  228. 
Material,       acquisition       of, 

84,    2IO-2I2. 

Methods  of  Narration,    119- 

131- 

Moral  Story,  28. 
MSS. :    preparation   of,   216, 

218,  228;    submitting,  222- 


227,  229-233;    letter  with, 
229;    record  of,  232. 
Manuscript  record,  232. 

NAMES  :  of  characters,  105 ; 
in  fiction,  105;  of  places, 

145- 

Narration:  methods  of,  119, 
131;  natural,  120;  imper- 
sonal, 120-122;  unity  in, 
122;  in  first  person,  122- 
125;  by  letter  or  diary, 
125;  by  an  animal  or  a 
thing,  126-128;  by  multi- 
plicity of  narrators,  128; 
within  narration,  129-131. 

Nature,  influence  of,  143. 

Newspapers,  material  from, 
84. 

Nonsense  Story,  38. 

Novel :  short  story  a  school 
for,  12;  compared  with 
short  story,  23;  influence 
of,  150,  155,  175- 

"OR"  in  title:  sensational, 
72-74;  too  long,  75. 

PADDING,  156;  in  conclusion, 
184;  defined,  202. 

Parable  of  the  Times,  35. 

Parts,  149. 

Phrases :  stereotyped,  192 ; 
foreign,  196. 

Plausibility :  in  use  of  facts, 
89 ;  in  "  Ambitious  Guest," 
92. 

Plot:  necessity  of,  17;  de- 
fined, 45;  implies  action, 


«54 


INDEX 


45;  simple  and  complete, 
47;  observes  Greek  uni- 
ties, 47;  importance  of, 
48;  in  Character  Study,, 
48;  in  Detective  Story, 
48;  plot-germ,  49;  test 
of,  50;  derivation  of,  51; 
freshness  of,  52,  57 ;  phases 
of,  52-56;  hackneyed,  57; 
"  elemental  "  or  "  true," 
58;  "theme,"  58;  in 
"  Ambitious  Guest,"  58- 
61 ;  "  skeleton  "  or  "work- 
ing," 59-61 ;  relation  to  ti- 
tle, 66,  67,  68;  effects  sur- 
prise, 165 ;  effects  climax, 
166,  179. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan :  first  rec- 
ognized short  story,  n; 
influence  on  short  story, 
ir,;  originated  Story  of 
Ingenuity,  36. 

Poetry,  quoted,  194. 

Preliminary     Climax,      177- 

179. 

Premonition,  stories  of,  169. 
Price   of   short   stories,   227, 

229. 
Punctuation,  200,  220. 

QUOTATIONS,  194. 

REALISM,  21. 

Religion :       not      literature, 

159;    influence  of,  160. 
Revision,  216-221. 
Rhetoric :    disregard  of,  204 ; 

faults  of,  219. 

255 


Romanticism,  21. 

SCENE:  location  of,  143,  145. 
importance  of,  144;  pre- 
sentation of,  144. 

Sensationalism :  in  title,  72- 
74;  in  style,  190,  192. 

Sentences,  199. 

Short  Story:  first  recog- 
nized, II ;  history  of,  n; 
masters  of,  n,  12;  an 
American  product,  12 ; 
epoch  of,  12;  school  for 
novelist,  12;  defined,  15- 
17;  plot  of,  17,  47-63; 
length  .of,  17;  love  ele- 
ment in,  18;  ingenuity 
and  originality  in,  19; 
"  touch  of  fantasy "  in, 
19;  tends  to  comedy,  20, 
46;  realism  and  roman- 
ticism in,  21 ;  technique 
of,  22;  artificiality  of,  22; 
conjpared  with  novel,  23; 
best  twelve  American,  24; 
classification  of,  26-44  > 
collections  of,  41-44;  unity 
in,  47,  149-155;  title  of, 
'64-77;  facts  in,  78-93; 
characters  in,  94-118; 
methods  of  telling,  119- 
131 ;  beginning  of,  132- 
148;  body  of,  149-170; 
parts  and  chapters  in, 
149;  influenced  by  novel, 
ISO,  155,  175;  padding  in, 
156;  local  color  in,  156; 
didacticism  in,  157-160; 


INDEX 


proportions  of,  160;  cli- 
max of,  161-182;  suspense 
in,  161-164;  surprise  hi, 
162,  165 ;  conclusion  of, 
182-188;  style  of,  189-208; 
labor  in  writing,  209-221 ; 
marketing  of,  222-233 ; 
criticism  on,  222,  231 ; 
timeliness  tof,  225-227. 

Skeleton  Plot:  defined,  59; 
in  "  Ambitious  Guest,"  59- 
61 ;  use  of,  62. 

Slang,  197. 

Spelling,  errors  in,   220. 

Stereotyped  phrases,   192. 

Story  of  Ingenuity:  com- 
pared with  Imaginative 
Tale,  27;  defined,  36; 
Humorous  Story  related 
to,  38. 

Story  of  To-day,  36. 

Story  of  Wonder,  37. 

Story  with  a  Moral,  29. 

Study  in  Horror,  31. 

Style:  importance  of,  189;  a 
matter  of  individuality, 
189;  appropriate,  189; 
qualities  of,  190;  common- 
place, 191 ;  stereotyped 
phrasing,  192 ;  "  fine 
writing,"  193 ;  quotations, 
194;  figures  of  speech, 
195;  foreign  words  and 
phrases,  196;  good  Eng- 
lish, 197;  slang,  197;  flow- 
ing, 198;  ease  of  expres- 
sion, 199;  compression  in- 
dispensable, 201;  padding, 


202;  not  exhaustive,  203; 
acquisition  of,  204-208. 

Suppression :  of  unimport- 
ant facts,  89;  of  unimport- 
ant dialogue,  115;  of  ir- 
relevant matter,  155. 

Surprise:    see  Element  of. 

Suspense:   see  Element  of. 

Tale,  27. 

Technical  Climax,  179-182, 
183. 

Test  of  good  story :  title, 
64  ;  beginning,  132,  146- 
148;  conclusion,  171. 

Theme :  defined,  58 ;  in 
"  Ambitious  Guest,"  58. 

Timeliness :  seasonal,  225 ; 
fashionable,  226. 

Title :  test  of  story,  64 ;  in- 
fluences sale,  64-66 ; 
"text,"  66,  76;  relation 
to  plot,  66;  apt,  67;  spe- 
cific, 68-70 ;  attractive,  71 ; 
name  of  character  as,  72, 
76 ;  sensational,  72-74 ; 
new,  75;  short,  75;  from 
principal  object,  77. 

Tone  Color,  199. 

"  Touch  of  Fantasy,"   19. 

True  Plot:  defined,  58;  in 
"  Ambitious  Guest,"  59. 

True  Story,  27. 

Typewritten  MSS.,  228. 

UNITY,  149-155. 


Weird  Story,  30. 


256 


INDEX 


Wilkins,  Mary  E. :  her  moral  |  Working   Plot :    defined,  59 ; 

stories,    160.  in  "  Ambitious  Guest,"  59- 

Words :    foreign,   196 ;    mis-       61 ;    use  of,  62. 

use  of,    197;     choice   of, 

109. 


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